Haven
by Nola Swan
Summary: Thirteen years before he faces Commodus in the arena, Maximus is a young, promising general sent on campaign to the East.  There he receives a special reward for his efforts –the daughter of a conquered tribal leader.
1. Lost in the Desert

Chapter 1  
>"Lost in the Desert"<p>

**AD 167  
>Arabia Deserta<strong>

Pale apricot sand stretched eternally toward the horizon. By afternoon, the heat had accomplished its persistent climb, causing waves to snake off the dunes and calling mirages to taint the men's morale. The horses were restless and unsure of their footing on this ever shifting terrain, and the young general scanned his line of cavalry to be sure the soldiers shared his hardened expression. His helmet rested in front of him to give him reprieve of its metal weight and heat, and the winds lined his sweaty skin with sand even as he squinted to avoid the incessant attack and rays of uninterrupted sun.

"If we do not fight; if we do not conquer; if we do not claim what is ours, we are not Romans!" Cassius called out in his indomitable way. By nature the army was rabid, lethal, effective. Rome gorged itself on countries, lands, and riches, but the hunger remained, a cost and a blood rite. The commander's steady black eyes landed on his general, a promising strategist and brutal enemy, and he granted Maximus a rare nod of recognition.

Maximus turned his face toward the horizon to hide his smile, and he slipped on his helmet, tying the leather strap beneath his chin where a scar had already formed from years as a soldier. In the distance the calls lifted upon the breeze long before the line of forces appeared. Nervous anticipation swept through the company, and Maximus barked for his men to remain steady. The horses sensed the shift and preparation, and his own tan stallion pawed at the sand despite the whispered words from its owner. An eternity stretched between the tribes and the Roman army –or so it seemed. The desert played tricks on his eyes, and the ranks' scarlet and copper regalia wavered in the distant horizon. Their lines were narrow though it was impossible to tell how deep, and soon they evaporated into the waves of heat and rolling dunes. His blue eyes squinted uneasily, and his grip on the leather reigns tightened.

"Had their presence been a trick of the sand?" The men behind him murmured such questions amongst themselves without daring to turn their heads, wary not to betray their position. No fear. No apprehension. Spear your enemy's face for his vanity will outweigh his courage. That was the Roman way, and their foes always covered their faces and ran. Maximus dared to glance at his leader, almost ashamed for allowing his attention to stray when he recognized the single-minded concentration Cassius accomplished.

The battle cries sounded again, far too close, and the lines sprung from the valley in front of them and rushed the Roman troops. The men were alarmed and abruptly terrified despite orders from their generals and commander himself. The first line was ambushed, the second fell back, the third pushed them forward using their own carcasses as shields. Maximus threw his spear, striking a man through his chest and letting his blood stain the sand as the first offering this day. His sword was drawn next, and he raised it overhead in silent command, charging from the right to force the barbarians back. Chests were slashed, heads rolled, and the bodies layered the ground, Roman soldiers among them. Maximus pushed the intruders back, faintly hearing Cassius's demands from behind, but over the clash of swords and howls of death swept away in the desert breeze, Maximus couldn't understand his superior's tone. His cavalry made quick work of the foot soldiers. Their courage was their weakness; their stubbornness, their death.

The sand held more surprises, and a company of cavalry hurtled out of the desert's mouth. The black stallions stampeded toward the Romans bearing their vicious masters too swiftly. Maximus called for his men to resume their lines, but the battle had scattered them. The riders were too swift. He deflected a scimitar and caught the next man in the chest. At the forefront of the lines, he was vulnerable and yet invincible, a veritable Roman charging danger. He had faced the Germanic tribes. These nomads with their battle cries did not frighten him. The cavalry broke through them to meet the lines of soldiers behind, and a new wave of foot soldiers followed, assaulting Maximus all at once with spears brandished. Despite his attempted retreat, his horse threw him onto the sinking grasp of the sand, and he struggled to stand from its consuming trap and face the soldier's blade aimed for his chest. He caught it while on his knees and threw off the weapon as he stumbled to his feet. The ground shifted beneath his weight, turbulent and unreliable as the sea, and the foreigner strained for control. The tribal soldier was indifferent to the terrain and moved with a fluid agility that never seemed to touch the ground. The Roman spun, weapon brandished, swinging powerfully for the nimble foe. Each attack was avoided rather than met, but for his towering brawn, his enemy was slender and nimble. It would only take one hit from the Roman to disable his opponent, but in a few moves he feared the soldier would be too close for him to fight off.

Unexpectedly the soldier's foot caught on a neglected shield from his fallen brethren causing him to stumble, and Maximus struck. His blade sliced open the tan skin beneath his shoulder and might have dismembered the man had he not already been falling backward and landed unceremoniously in the dunes. Maximus swung again for his neck, but he rolled to evade it causing the blade to cut through the ground. Once more he charged for the final attack to steal his enemy's life, but three soldiers materialized to take him. As he disposed of them one by one he lost sight of his initial enemy, and when all three had fallen, the soldier had vanished into the sea of sand.

The nomadic tribes did not have the manpower, voracious hunger, or spirit of the Romans, and the battle was won. By night, the leaders were gathered in surrender, forced rather than complicit, and Cassius was soon enamored by the jewels and gold each man carried to bribe him. The Roman accepted their offerings and took their heads as well. Trajan had annexed these lands long ago, but as the Gauls had proved, tribesman could never truly be tamed or conquered until death. Whatever remained, his soldiers plundered while Cassius dined with his generals in his grandiose tent and celebrated their swift victory. The most precious of his treasures were the slaves used for propaganda, and these he saved for last. His beady eyes shimmered when the wives, sons, and daughters of leaders were collected, and already he was dictating their fates over another cup of wine, sloshing it as he swung the chalice about. A scribe on hand kept account while he rewarded certain loyal generals, saved some for his allies in court at Rome, and still chose others, the most beautiful, for himself.

Among the last gathered was a daughter whose mother Cassius had already claimed, but by his greedy posture, certainly he realized the mistake of his haste. The men leered through their drunken haze, others quiet with indulgent thoughts, but Maximus was the only among them to nearly lose his grip on his cup. In a fitted red gown with sheer overlay, jewelry punctuated by rubies, and slender gold diadem, she reserved the exotic decadence that both entranced and disgusted Romans. Her honey skin was the more alluring, thick onyx mane of hair, and fiery pits of charcoal for eyes. Although her cheeks were flushed a dark rouge from the exertions of attempting to escape her captors, she gathered a regal air, straightening and squaring her shoulders defiantly, to face the Roman commander and his company. She likely didn't know that Roman men preferred their woman subservient, obedient, and invisible for she was unavoidable: a powerful torrent like the smoldering desert sunset that had kissed the dunes stained red from her people. While the men pooled over her allure, Maximus eyed the white bandage on her arm directly under her shoulder and had an odd, sinking sensation of fate's hand. The general participated in the revelry to the capacity his obscure reserve would allow. The pride of his newly awarded position was lost when considering his mistakes and the lives they had cost, and Cassius had not noticed Maximus so solely concentrated. A sneaking smile gathered the corners of Cassius's lips with the cunning expression of a satiated wolf.

"Maximus," he called, and the young man immediately shifted his attention to his superior. "You fought well today... Fearless and determined as any Roman, yet you've not claimed a single treasure from among these gathered. You don't approve of their gold, their weapons," his eyes shimmered dangerously as he paused, "their women?"

The question had all the signs of a trap, but the general assumed a vague disconnect as he decided, "I need nothing more than the glory of fighting at your side and the satisfaction of victory."

Cassius laughed in a booming tone, pleased with such an answer that both stroked his ego and spoke of Maximus' character. "An honorable response, young Meridius, but even soldiers have needs. There is further satisfaction to be had and territory to be conquered." Uncertain how to react, Maximus remained silent until Cassius prodded loudly, "You do not find her attractive?"

His blue eyes returned to her, disturbed almost to meet her fierce gaze like rich mahogany glowing in the fire's light. She turned away as a show of her indifference and unwittingly sealed her fate. Such a flagrant dismissal was an insult to a man accustomed to women falling before him. A descendent of Commander Quintus Sertorius himself with the virile features to suit such a title: strong neck, broad shoulders, thick crown of dark curls, square jaw. He appealed to women and men alike. He was as infuriated as enraptured, his attention drilling into her profile, and he decided, "Yes… for a barbarian conquest."

His gaze remained fixed even after Cassius declared, "You have your reward, Maximus. Send her to his tent!"

The linguistic barrier did little to bar the meaning of the men's intentions, and surely she understood what would become of her. The guard who touched her arm to guide her away proved this omniscient tenacity as a hidden dagger materialized from her robes and plunged deep into his neck. No sooner had his body fallen, twitching and blood spewing, did she turn the blade on herself. She howled curses in her native tongue for all the men gathered with the fluid, chilling effect of a witch summoning magic. She jerked to bury the dagger's edge beneath her ribs, but the other guard caught her arms. She struggled against him as more men joined the fight, and it took three Roman soldiers to properly restrain her. Still screaming even after a gag was placed around her mouth, the guards held her before Cassius, now expecting him to order her death. No woman kills a Roman man. It was a crime analogous to sedition. Perhaps it was the wine, but Cassius appeared abruptly amused by her antics.

"She killed Gaius!" one man cried out in a rage, and others joined him in hurled insults. Cassius moved to silence them with one raised hand, but the wine and blood unleashed their rages. They showered her in abuses.

"Enough!" he growled, and the men obediently hushed. "I have given her to Maximus. Her fate lies in his hands."

All eyes turned to the young general who still had not looked away from her. He understood perfectly the implications of his decision. Execute her, and these powerful men like voracious dogs would gnaw on her bones and spread stories of the desert's wanton temptress and masculine whore. Allow her to live, and they would gnash at his heels for years to come. The fires flickered in her dark eyes as they darted from face to face, impatient for her sentence and hungry even for the end.

"She wishes to die," Maximus reflected in a measured tone, letting the wine swirl about his cup to suggest an ease he did not at all feel. "Life is a better punishment…" The sentence lingered in the air for those men to nip on while he considered the heavy edges of kohl surrounding her eyes. Every inch of her dripped opulence –even the candlelight melting on her honey skin– and yet there was something so stark and barren in her gaze. A woman with everything and nothing to lose. His cup landed loudly on the table to shatter the silence he had cultivated, and he deemed, "She will become a slave in Rome and will pray for death until her eyes close!"

"You cannot allow this abomination!" yet another man protested. The attentions on him turned sour, no doubt assuming Maximus was seduced by greed for this woman exhaled excess in her emotions, dress, and features. None noticed his clemency and his cruelty.

"Silence!" Cassius barked in a voice that no one dared defy. "I have allowed Maximus to choose. Take her to his tent, and show her the mercy of Roman men."

‡ ‡ ‡

It was hours before Maximus returned to his camp suffering a bout of drunken rage. The men did not lay silent about his choice, and he feared guiltily that he had sacrificed his peers' loyalty for a woman who deserved the weight of his hand more than his mercy. He found her in the tent with hands and feet bound by harsh knots. The angry flesh around the restraints suggested she had attempted to escape but only succeeded in tearing her own skin. Dry blood caked her lips, her dress was torn, and diadem missing as her captors had not been gentle with their cargo. His entrance seemingly had no effect on her: she stared at the space in front of her, defiant even now that her fate had been decreed. The blind, stubborn courage turned his gut, and he grabbed her neck roughly, forcing her to look at him and acknowledge who he was. He wanted to watch the fear creep into her eyes, to see her vulnerable and weak, but she sustained his gaze without daring to blink. He released her suddenly, pushing her away so that she fell onto her back and scrambled to her elbows and knees and finally onto her backside once more. She glared at him over her shoulder for such a careless display, but he turned his back to her and began removing his chest plate, shin guards, and wrist fenders. Once in his sweat-lined tunic, he sat on the edge of his cot and unlaced his sandals, feeling her eyes now glued permanently to him. He had known her weakness ever since she stood in Cassius' tent, and he smirked as he recognized it was her pride.

"Were you royalty?" he asked rhetorically since he knew she couldn't understand his civilized tongue. He turned to her, annoyed to receive the same potent look as if she could decipher his words and simply chose not to answer, and he shifted to kneel beside her and remove the white bandage from her arm. She stiffened defensively but did not strike. Perhaps she wanted him to see the stitched skin, the perfectly linear and deep incision. He swallowed down his confirmed suspicions, and wondered, "Are the men so few, so cowardly they let a woman fight among them?"

She answered him sharply with her dark eyes taunting him. He had not known she was a woman, and she dangled that fact before him without needing the language to do so.

"I would have killed you," he growled, eyes flashing in insult, and she mistakenly smiled with the sort of sinuous curve and shimmering gaze that made him wish to tear her limb from limb. He started with her royal vestments, the shoulder shredded beneath his rough grip, and her bound hands met the side of his face. He felt the impact and the hatred behind it but grabbed the ropes to pull her toward him until their mouths crashed together. Her lips split open again, her blood smearing his mouth, and he licked the metallic taste salting his fury as if he were dining on her pain. She broke away from him with a sharp inhale and fought in his grip, but her fervent struggle only bolstered his intent. The thick stench of alcohol on his breath warned her as he found her mouth again and caught her bottom lip between his teeth to test the broken flesh even as she jerked away. She groaned out her pain and fury though her dress unraveled before him. The material sunk between her breasts leaving her half naked for his rough seduction no matter how she battered him with her hands, and he feasted on the supple curve of her neck, sweeping the dense heat of her scent deep into his lungs. Her soft flesh, heady perfume, vicious anger unleashed him as a true descendent of the famed Sertorius: unyielding and destructive. He only abandoned her to draw his tunic over his head, and as he settled over her, pinning her beneath the weight of his muscular build, he saw for the first time the flicker of terror slide across her face. One hand forced the layers of her dress around her waist, the other caught her bound wrists over her head where she was forced to meet his icy blue gaze, drunk and lethal. With her ankles tied, he realized irritably that his hips couldn't slide between her legs, and he straightened once more to reach for his dagger. Immediately, she turned onto her stomach once his attention fell away and dug her elbows and knees into the sand to crawl from him. It was a futile attempt that confirmed her utter impotence and frantic desire to avoid her fate.

Maximus caught her feet and sawed open the rope, freeing her legs to assault him in a bevy of kicks. The renewed fight seemed a better sport, and he ascended her body to unbind her wrists as well. She flipped onto her back to face him and used her nails like claws on his exposed back until the skin peeled away. The pain drove him like a battle wound, and he forced her legs apart, fell over her, and crushed her into the sand. Their skin rubbed raw for the layer of sand covering them both as she continued to writhe beneath him, growling and groaning with her efforts to be free. His hand reached to catch her hip and steady her as if he could manage to take her gently, but in his drunken state his fingers met her inner thighs, smearing the thick moisture over her skin. The sticky substance drew his attention with the vague recognition of its consistency, and his intentions shifted as quickly as his body, falling back to consider through the flickering fire's light what was staining her inner thighs. She fought out of his grip, and this time he let her scramble away to the edge of the tent. Though her face was turned away, he saw the kohl around her eyes now trailing down her moist cheeks. Where he had thought her defiant and invincible, he realized she was terrified like a cornered animal only wishing to survive.

"They did this to you?" he snarled. She undoubtedly thought him angry that someone had touched her before him, stealing glory from a warrior's grip, but he was disgusted by the flash of brutality he recognized in himself. It soured his fury with guilt and contempt and burrowed deep in his gut to rouse a renewed wave of rage. In a moment, he was on his feet with his tunic slipped over his head once more, and he stalked out of his tent and called one of the camp servants to his aid.

A middle-aged woman hurried toward him, and he swiftly commanded, "The woman in my tent… Help her bathe and give her fresh clothes."

Without waiting for her consent, he strode toward Cassius's large tent to settle this quandary. Cassius would be sympathetic to his plight not for the brutality these men used but because they had stolen from Maximus. For all appearances this exotic desert woman had been untouched, and no treasure was more carefully guarded or viciously fought for than what lay between a woman's thighs. Truly Maximus needed the opportunity to release his rage for it left him shuddering and restless, but the brisk walk toward Cassius's camp cooled his impulsive thoughts. It was too late to call on his liege unless it were to warn him of intruders. Rather than looking kindly on this matter, Cassius would no doubt be annoyed and burdened by his presence. All at once, Maximus stilled, staring at Cassius's tent within reach, and his hands curled at his sides. He spun on his heel and retreated back where he came from and settled with a group of lingering soldiers around a fire outside. Their conversations excluded him when it became clear his attentions were distracted. He was left to his own devices, the image of her damp cheeks and stained thighs brewing and turning easily within his mind. No matter how he attempted to consider other matters, the memory remained in the periphery of his gaze to taunt him. When he saw the camp follower exit his tent some time later with her soiled clothes and dirty rags in her arms, he gathered his wits.

Maximus intercepted her before she could return to her quarters for the night, and though he already knew the answer, he asked all the same, "Did they…?" The woman's features harrowed with repulse and apprehension, but after an infinite moment, she stiffly nodded her head. The tempest roared its ugly head only restrained by his clenched fists, and he managed to swallow his anger and press, "Has she eaten?"

"No," the woman murmured softly, "she is asleep."

He brushed past her and slipped into his tent once more to see the fire in the center had been stoked and now burned gently. The heavy canvas captured the heat and blocked the chill of night falling over the desert. The water for her bath had likely not been warm, but there were few comforts afforded to soldiers. Whatever luxury surrounded Cassius while the other men grew more attune to their mortal strengths and limitations. The faint glow soothed the interior even in the wake of his behavior as if smoothing away the furious wrinkles. As the woman had suggested, she was curled in a corner upon a few gathered blankets with one drawn up to her waist. Her black hair was heavy and damp, spread in a fan across the support of her arms, but if the wet tresses bothered her, sleep abated any discomfort. The kohl was cleaned away so that he realized –ruefully– the clarity and silken complexion undeterred by wrinkles. She was young, much younger than he had originally suspected, and he found himself entranced with her simultaneous allure, danger, and youth as he squatted beside her sleeping figure. The stiffness of her limbs betrayed her steady breath, and her awareness of him forced him to recognize that he had no plan and no reason to be so close to her. Whether out of mercy or a lack of anything else to do, he drew the blanket up to her shoulders and stood to slip off his tunic.

As the material slid from his shoulders, he felt the weight of her gaze on his naked back. He was acutely aware of the stacked muscles, hardened from training and punctuated from the meager diet of a soldier during months of campaigning. With his head bowed and tunic discarded, he could almost picture himself through her eyes, knowing well the scar stretching along his side from a wound that had almost claimed his life, the disheveled state of his tight curls, intimidating combination of his strong neck, tall stature, broad shoulders, large hands. When he was young and still foolish enough to glorify death, a general had commented that he had the hands of soldier –that is to say he had the hands of a killer. He focused on them now where they hung tense and bored at his sides and exhaled heavily if only to feel his shoulders fall and chest and back compress for her private show. Were she older, he might have turned to her curious gaze and revealed himself fully to test her audacity, but tonight he was more tactful and slid beneath the blankets of his cot. Still her attention remained until he turned to meet it and saw her eyes closed the same as he had found her. It was less a game between them as a mutual fascination: a woman who fought and killed Romans and a man who forced himself upon her one moment only to protect her the next. Neither was what they should have been, and yet they were exactly how fate had whittled them with some distant purpose in mind.


	2. Stranded Strangers

Chapter 2  
>"Stranded Strangers"<p>

In the pale dew of morning before the dawn finished its yawning, he awoke to her slender figure standing upright in the center of his tent. His eyes narrowed on her, blinking several times to focus through the dim light, and cautiously he sat up with one hand touching the hilt of his dagger hidden beneath his pillow. The sword rotated freely in her grip, twisting and rushing through the air, but her stance remained neutral and non-combative like she were only passing the time until he stirred. It stilled once again, and her fingers adjusted their grip on the handle.

"Sit," she commanded, her once velvety tongue shattered with her Greek.

The glare of the sun filtering through the canvas caught his eyes, blinding him to all but her silhouette, as though he had woken in a dream, and the milky glow embraced her in the fitted, plain tunic with her tousled mane hanging around her waist. He was entranced by his sword in her grip and their linguistic link, but his fingers relaxed from his dagger. There was no threat in her tone or posture.

"You speak Greek?"

"Some."

"Latin?"

The blade rotated restlessly in her hands once more, but this time she held it as a warrior would, knees bent, elbows flexed. "Little."

"You understood us." He recalled her rich eyes, always housing some acute awareness, and suddenly it was so obvious to him. He had been blinded by his prejudice.

"Yes." The flap of his tent shifted to allow a large figure entrance, and Marcus stiffened as the foreigner's gaze landed on him. Their faces reflected the other's shock and outrage, but she intercepted any comment with a sharp reprimand in her language. He retorted, but she waved her hand dismissively. Reluctantly, the man retreated outside, and she glanced over her shoulder to monitor his withdrawal. Once she was certain he was gone, her attentions returned to Maximus, and she directed, "Remain here."

Then she was gone like a phantom evaporated into the pale light, and he rushed from his cot and slipped his tunic into place. His dagger rested in one hand, and he carefully circled around the dying fire to the entrance where he checked the exterior. Through the slender space between the flaps, he could see the silent warriors stalking away from the camp. The Roman guards were slain, but otherwise the lands were quiet. She was among the group gathered with his sword still in her hands, and he realized their purpose was extraction. He recognized several of the men and women Cassius had captured for slaves, and Maximus wondered how many more of his Roman brothers were sacrificed.

Without hesitation, he crept from his tent, weaving around the campfires littering the grounds and slipping behind what cover he could find to shield his advance. Three men lingered after the main group to keep watch, and Maximus circled behind one of his brethren's tents, edging around the corner where he could reach the first foreigner. He slit open his throat and buried his dagger in the man's back. As he fell, the other men charged, and Maximus yelled to wake his brothers at arms. He ducked the sword swung at his head and rushed forward with his shoulder in the man's gut. The soldier fell backward into the sand, arms splaying for Maximus to plunge his knife into the man's chest, but he never had the chance. A metal hilt met the back of his skull, and he was drowning in black before his body ever touched the ground.

‡ ‡ ‡

Cold water slapped his face, dousing his features and melting down his neck and chest. He jerked to consciousness and gasped for air on instinct before blinking through the dripping water to make out the men gathered around him. Taut binds restrained his wrists behind his back, a pole between them, and he was sitting in the sand within a tent. The fire pulsed in the back of his head, throbbing through his brain and behind his eyes, and his impaired thoughts swirled recklessly around him, trying to unravel every observation he made. The cold pricked his skin, the fire crackled too loudly from his left, and the heavy balm of perfume and oil laced his nostril. The spinning inside his head wouldn't cease, and he swallowed down a sudden wave of nausea. He shook his head to throw off the water from his face but only succeeded in intensifying his injury. Futilely, he exhaled, relaxed his head against the pole, and gazed at the men more annoyed than fearful.

They talked amongst themselves, motioning toward him with rough sweeps of their hands, and the conversation swiftly dissolved to a heated argument. One man interrupted and stepped forward into the light. A dark beard hung from his chin, rich layers of fabrics draped his body, and jewels glittered from his plump fingers. He signaled, and from the far corner, she approached now donning a black gown with gold jewelry and her hair braided from her face. Maximus considered her openly, confused and distracted by her presence among these men, though her expression was impassive as if she were facing a stranger.

The man spoke once more, and she translated, "What is your name?"

"Maximus Decimus Meridius," he replied, and his voice swelled with pride despite his position in the dirt.

The man laughed and murmured something to his accomplices before addressing her once more. "He asks why you've come here, murdered our families, taken our riches, and stolen our children?"

"You and your tribes do not rule these lands. You are under Rome's authority, yet you raid villages in the north and south."

Her voice underlined his answer, gently whispering his words in her own tongue. The man's face contorted, and he spat in the sand at Maximus' feet. "He says you kick us like a stubborn dog, but we are not Romans."

"You live within the vast Empire of Rome. If it displeases you, find refuge elsewhere."

"We were here long before Rome! Our ancestors roamed these lands before your empire was forged. Who are you to claim them?"

He smirked at the irony, and answered, "We are Romans."

His neck twisted violently as the fist landed in the side of his face. He lingered, body warped in one direction, and waited out the rush of pain blooming in the side of his face. The skin broke on his cheek and brow from the jewel-crusted rings, and he exhaled shortly through his nose. Teeth still gritting, his lips parted in a smile, and his head lolled once more to face him. "I see why you let her fight… You hit like a woman."

Another blow caught his jaw, and the blood flooded his mouth to coat his tongue and throat. He spit it out and began laughing, flashing his bloodstained teeth at her. Her lips turned down in disgust.

"He asks where your next attack will be."

"Tell him I have an itch." He extended his jaw out in the man's direction. "Right there."

Rather than indulging his morbid humor, the man grabbed the shoulders of his tunic and wrenched him to his feet until their faces were on level. His expression hardened in an unvoiced threat, and Maximus grinned. Despite his ludicrous show of indifference, his blue eyes were lit with fury and sizzled in the flickering fire's light. Were his hands free, he would show the man what it meant to be Roman.

"He asks you again," she spoke, her voice abruptly strained.

"My answer remains," he returned through a laugh, but the air was quickly stolen from his lungs as the man's fist embedded in Maximus' ribs. He doubled over as far as his restraints would allow, feeling the metal rings dig deep into the bone, and growled through his clenched teeth.

Once he had straightened again, his abdomen aching with every breath he drew, she continued, "He asks where you keep your supplies."

"I forget." The man unsheathed the dagger from his waist and held it to Maximus' throat, applying steady pressure until he felt the grain of his unshaven beard sliding along the edge.

"Answer him." Her command reached him as a plea, and his attention flickered her direction to decipher her tense features.

"I will tell him nothing."

The foreigner barked out an instruction, and she warned, "Then, he says, you will bleed like a Roman pig."

He returned the man's severe look. "I do not fear death."

There was a thick pause where the man waited for her translation, and it came in a sudden deluge, like the breaking of a levy, much too long to be his words. The knife was removed from his neck, and the man smiled in satisfaction, cunning, pregnant, self-aggrandizing satisfaction. Maximus' smile fell, and he asked her, "What did you say?" She was silent, and he tore his attention away from his enemy to consider her hollow expression now lined with mercy and fury. "What did you say!"

She turned, and the men funneled out of the tent as well, leaving their prisoner beaten, disoriented, and alone. Maximus sank to the ground once more, groaning under his breath as his sore muscles contracted to ease his weight, and splinters caught his skin when his arms moved down the pole. The blood rushed to his head to fuel the persistent throbbing; blood coated his throat, mouth, and cheek, slipping down from his brow toward his eye; and every breath multiplied the pain in his ribs. His head slumped between his shoulders, hanging limp and defeated. Through the shroud of pain, the silence echoed his name, his pedigree, his strength. He straightened with a deep breath, eyes hardened with renewed vigor, and addressed his restraints.

‡ ‡ ‡

"_Ya 'amm_!" she called out when the men brushed past her expectant stance poised at the exterior of the tent.

Her uncle glanced over his shoulder, looking almost surprised by her presence as though he had already forgotten her. "You did well, Arwa. Be with your sister. She has asked for you since your return."

"It is you I must speak with first," she pressed while stubbornly trailing after them.

"Later," he dismissed and turned from her once more. "A counsel has been called."

"Then I should attend it."

With an exhaustive sigh, he spun on his heel to face her. "You have no place there."

"I am my father's heir. You deny our tribe the chance to be heard?"

"Your brother takes his place."

Her defiant stance, squared shoulders and lifted chin, showed that she had expected an argument, but this betrayal she could not fathom. "My brother is a child! My father never intended him to follow before me!"

"His tongue has been silenced. Do not speak for him."

"Are you not? How can you decide who would inherit his power?"

"I am his brother! I have ruled years before you were ever born. Do not question my word!" His eyes flashed in warning, but she stepped forward to meet them.

"I question your motives. I have been bred to lead."

"Your lenience suggests otherwise." Too well did she recognize the reference to the soldier tied within the tent. She had hoped to spare his life this morning, but he was stubborn as he was foolish. "You do not have the strength to lead, Arwa. It is not in your nature."

Without another word exchanged, her uncle turned and left with the men. Only Malik loitered behind them to assess Arwa's confused eyes. She noticed her betrothed, and her gaze swiftly turned to fury.

"You allow him to speak to me in this way?"

"You expect too much, _habibti_." His fingers touched her elbow as a parent soothes a scorned child, and he bent to touch his lips to her cheek. He paused barely an inch from the bruised skin, and the breath stilled in her lungs like every muscle coiling into place. He drew away, unable to make contact, and she carefully moved her arm from his reach. "Do not approach him when he is surrounded. He will be more lenient if you speak with him in private."

"Lenient?" she hissed. "He jeopardizes my tribe to satisfy his greed."

"Arwa, your anger bests you." The accusation was too serious to throw about flippantly, but she had meant every word.

"He will speak for my brother, will he not?" Malik frowned deeply. "He will use my brother as a mask to force his own agenda and increase the number of men who obey him!"

"I won't allow it."

"Then take me to the counsel. Give me your support before those men. If I can but speak, my uncle's hold with break."

"A woman cannot enter the counsel. You know this."

"You support an unjust rule. You support the insult to me."

"_Habibti_, I see you as my equal, but these men are old in their traditions."

She saw through his guise and understood, "You fear they'll mock you? Is your pride greater than your love for me?"

"Arwa!" he growled out through his teeth, and his hand twitched at his side. "Learn your place!"

"I am not yet your wife."

"You," he exhaled uneasily, still aware of his hand poised at his side, but he reconsidered, "You are tormented by your loss. I cannot punish you for mourning your father… You will be yourself in time."

She could not anymore be the woman her father had raised than this moment, and through their sustained gazes, they both understood that. Malik took a step back and reminded her, "Your sister waits. Be with her." Then he turned and strode swiftly toward the site of the counsel.

Arwa was abandoned in his wake. Only a day had passed since she was given to the Romans, but they had devoured more than her body. She returned a stranger to her own people, impotent and voiceless. She wondered why her father had ever trained her and made her believe she could be as powerful as he had been.

"_When I am gone, you are the only one capable of assuring the continuity of my will_."

His absence left her stranded like a woman marooned at sea, and she recognized her own arrogance as if she could taste its bitter presence on her tongue. What life awaited her at Malik's side? One of subjugation, swallowed words, and forced ignorance. She briefly closed her eyes, sensing a storm brewing on the horizon, and all around her the waves churned in anticipation. She would drown in a rage of flailing arms and kicking legs. She could almost taste the salty, cold water flooding her lungs, but a presence at her side shocked her to reality once more.

She turned toward the large man whose graying hair at his temples did little to detract from his powerful stature. The tan skin was worn around his eyes where they considered her calmly as if poised to pluck her from the center of her abyss, and she drew inexplicable comfort in his company. Razin, her personal guard since she was a babe, who had come to her rescue this morning, he was her final connection which ironically gave her no further association. His allegiance alone was to her, and his character did not boast a plethora of friends or allies. Thus, they were both lost but at least jointly, and there was some vain solace for her in that respect.

"Take me to Fatimah," she commanded distantly, and he led her through the array of tents from the few remaining tribes gathered.

"Why did you say he would show them the armaments in the morning?"

Her attention remained leaden, but his company did not require her to pretend. "There's been too much death."

"His death comes… You only postpone the inevitable."

"He spared my life, Razin." She frowned unconsciously as she recalled her night with the Roman general. She was presented for his trophy, but he did not claim her. "Why would he do that?" The older man was silent, allowing her to continue, "We are bred for hate. We are taught that Romans are beasts gnashing at us and tearing apart our lands, our homes, our families –unraveling the very threads that join us. And we do not question." She stared vacantly ahead at this thought, caught up in her own memories and confusions. "He showed me compassion when I would have slit his throat in his sleep and smiled upon his corpse."

"His compassion comes after his violence," Razin finally contributed with his attention sliding to her battered features. "How easy it is to repent before restraining his anger."

"He did not do this to me." Her voice shook and surprised even her by its betrayal. For her stone exterior, she was still human and felt every insult, fall of their hands, and violation of their bodies tearing into her. "I fought to avenge my father and prayed I would join him in the afterlife. Now my every breath brings shame to his memory!" She stilled in the narrow gap between two tents, and Razin paused as well to wait for her. One shaking hand extended toward him, and she realized, "I must end it… Give me your dagger." The man considered her in an unwavering look that shook her to her core, and she felt her body quaking though her voice firmly commanded, "Razin, you will give it to me."

"Taking your life will not remove the insult to your father," he returned calmly.

"I am the insult! My body is stained from their hands! Malik will not marry me when he realizes…" Her expression echoed her fear that this secret would be found out, and she shook her hand purposefully in front of her. "Let me end this."

"You surrender so swiftly, _nuur il-'en_."

He had not used that name to address her in years, since she was a child, and somehow it thrust her through the sands to a time when she was young and vulnerable. Her throat tightened and eyes burned. "What other choice do I have?"

"Live, and take your vengeance."

‡ ‡ ‡

"Arwa!" Fatimah rushed from her seat in a rustle of heavy fabrics and clinking jewelry. Her arms winded around Arwa's slender shoulders and drew her into the older woman's breast. Her body froze in the wake of this foreign example of affection between them, but the comfort softened her until she wrapped her arms around her stepsister and rested her chin on her shoulder. "We were so worried for you."

Her dismay at her stepsister and brother's retreat into exile remained. She had supported her father and faced the Romans with her mother when he fell, while her two siblings had hidden. Her mahogany eyes searched Fatimah's face when the latter pulled away, trying to find some reason for this new fondness between them, but the older woman would show nothing but tenderness.

"Look what they've done to you," she continued and took Arwa's chin to observe every bruise and cut on her face. "How could they mark such a beauty?" Still, Arwa was silent, but Fatmiah turned from her and motioned for the servants inside her tent. The space was adorned with rich fabrics and thick incense, and Arwa couldn't restrain the frown at the sight of their father's riches being exploited. "Are you hungry or perhaps you should rest?"

"No," she spoke up. "I only heard you were asking for me."

"Yes, I could not believe you were returned alive."

Her brow twitched, and she understood too swiftly. Fatimah's act was noteworthy and compelling, but even she couldn't undo years of friction amongst them. A daughter of their father's first wife, Fatimah was nearly ten years Arwa's senior. Fatimah's mother could not bear a living son, and while raiding the lands to the north, their father Khalid stole Arwa's mother. Asma was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, and she had been educated in all appropriate subjects. She taught Arwa Greek and other topics, perhaps foreseeing their importance in a world where the Roman threat grew stronger each day. Her intellect and strong will captured Khalid's heart, and Arwa could not deny that he was the more involved with Asma and her offspring. Then again, Fatimah never allowed her to forget, and clearly she had been celebrating Arwa and Asma's capture.

Rather than addressing this observation, Arwa wondered of her younger brother, "How is Nasr?"

"Enduring," Fatimah explain with a gentle sigh. "He is young to lose his father, and I have stayed with him during the night to be sure he was not alone."

Arwa saw the hands grappling for control over the young boy, the heir to her father's tribe, and undoubtedly the war was named between her uncle and stepsister as they battled for political control. Arwa wished to tear Nasr from their hands where he could not be tainted by their greed and selfishness. Their father would never want this.

"I will need to speak with him," she commented, and Fatimah's posture stiffened.

"Yes, he would be much relieved to see his sister, but I only worry your injuries will upset him. It is so soon, and he is still so young."

"They treat him as the ruler of our tribe, and so he must face the Roman threat and the consequences of impulsive attacks. There is no better lesson than losing his father and seeing his family beaten."

Fatimah stared at her, nose turned up slightly in disgust, and commented, "You are too harsh, Arwa… I realize you are angry for what has happened to our father, your mother, and yourself, but you must not forget your station. Do not dishonor our father's name with your conduct. Take care to present yourself appropriately. Cover your face to hide these lashes. You do not want to look like a whipped slave."

Each word lashed across the narrow space to impact her like scourging her fresh wounds, and no longer could she restrain her tongue or her anger. "And you spit on Father's grave by hiding within your tent and clinging to our uncle's robes for protection! Do not think the Romans will be gentle with you when they capture you!"

"I am not so foolish! To surrender to those men… I would take my own life!"

"You are a coward."

Fatimah's face contorted in a familiar look of venomous fury, and she was unleashed for one violent strike, "They call you a traitor. They say you enjoyed his company and that is why you spared him. If I am a coward, you are a Roman whore!"

Without hesitation, Arwa had Fatimah pinned to the ground, wrapping her hands around the woman's throat and crying out something indecipherable over Fatimah's shrill screams. The older woman flailed beneath her though Arwa's legs kept her pinned to the ground. A slap resonated on her face, but it was an insect's bite to Arwa whose grip around Fatimah's throat tightened. The woman choked, and Arwa added her weight to her hands, increasing the pressure to satisfy her ravenous rage. Then all at once, iron arms locked around her, tore her from Fatimah's body, and carried her kicking and struggling out of the tent where Razin released her. His muscular build guarded the entrance to Fatimah's tent and held Arwa from rushing into the space once more to finish their skirmish.

It was not necessary for Fatimah came running outside, hair disheveled, robes torn, and face blooming red, and yelled for all those surrounding them, "She is mad! She tried to murder me! She must be bound!" A group was gathering as people heard Fatimah's accusations shrieked into the desert air. Arwa flinched for a renewed fight, but Razin caught her arm and nearly dragged her away from that site.

Not until Fatimah's screams were a distant cry, and they were safely tucked inside Razin's tent did Arwa notice the chill on her cheeks. Her fingertips touched the wet trails, stupefied and amazed, and she stared at Razin with her mahogany eyes wide in shock. The guard's actions were brusque to hint at his frustration, but Arwa knew it was for Fatimah's tongue and not her own. He found his flask of water and wrapped Arwa's hands around it, squatting in front of her to await the instruction cusped on her lips.

"I cannot remain here," she whispered softly and drank.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hey lovelies! So the mystery woman is revealed… Hopefully you enjoyed the insight into the complications of her life. A bit of translation: _Ya 'amm_ means "my uncle/uncle." _Habibti_ means "my beloved," though I see Malik's use of it almost being a bit condescending –sort of like someone calling you sweetheart to shut you up. Finally, _nuur il-'en_ means "light of my eyes," and it obviously shows the very close relationship Razin and Arwa have since in some respects he's helped raise her since she was a child. If I've gotten any of these wrong, Arabic speakers, feel free to correct me :)

Thanks Audreyxoxo for the first review! I'm super excited that you're starting this with me too :) It's like I have a buddy in my corner, but I'm a little intimidated since Gladiator is your favorite movie haha I don't want to disappoint you, or not do the movie justice. So please feel free to give me an honest response to everything :D Thanks so much for the support, and I hope you liked this chapter too! xoxo


	3. A Life for A Life

Chapter 3  
>"A Life for A Life"<p>

"You told me I must live to reap my vengeance."

Razin granted her a loaded look to have his words twisted and fed back to him, and he clarified, "I did not mean in this way."

"No," she pressed while pacing purposefully before him, "you were right. This is my only option."

"It is not."

She turned and bent over him, a rare perspective for her to sustain his stern gaze. "No one will listen to me! How can I follow after my father to protect the tribe and see that his will is carried out when my brother has taken his seat and is forced to act out the agenda of my uncle and stepsister?"

"You must earn their respect."

"Why?" she shot back irritably. "If I am wounded, I bleed. If I steal, my hands are cut off. If I do not live my life honorably, I will face retribution in the afterlife. I am equal in punishment, but not in my ability to lead my tribe or stand before the counsel?"

Razin did not answer for her argument landed on sympathetic ears. After all, he was the one who taught her to fight. He knew the woman she had become and would not place another before her to lead their tribe.

She was furious even without a response from him to provoke her and began pacing once more. "If I can succeed in this, Razin, they must recognize me. They must respect me for I will have honored my father and all those who have fallen by avenging them."

"And if you do not succeed?"

"I will."

"The situation is too delicate. One mistake, and the entire plan will collapse." He bent forward to catch her attention. "And then where will you be?"

He voiced the unspoken fear lingering on her tongue, and she shook her head unconsciously as though to toss away the thought. Her hands curled to fists at her sides, and she lifted her chin. "I will succeed."

He had seen such a face from her only once: when she approached him years before and convinced him to have armor specially made for her, so that she might fight if the time came. Despite his attempts to stall her plans, she was resolute as a stone in his path. She would be similarly rooted in this affair, no matter the intuition burrowing into his belly.

"I will come with you," he decided. "You will need my aid."

"No."

"It is my pledge to protect you."

"Not this time. It is too dangerous." She knelt into the sand before him, and he straightened uneasily as her face leveled with his own. "You taught me strength and perseverance. My brother needs you now more than I do. Be my eyes and ears while I am gone. I will rely on your account for my return."

"I am sworn to you, not your brother. It is an oath in blood. I cannot break it –even by your command."

"You are not breaking it." She fretted for the proper words, searching the air above her head, and decided, "Think of it as a pause or a breath. There is the promise of a return… Please, Razin. I cannot do this without your support."

His features hardened in response to her raw look, rather than succumbing to the weight of her eyes, and she worried he had fallen into a bout of silence. At last, he commented, "I do not trust him."

The words were his consent, and she smiled broadly. "I do."

Razin stiffened with his gaze shifting to the entrance of his tent, and Arwa stood to face the herald who slipped within. He seemed startled by the severe expressions awaiting him and quickly delivered his message, "_al-Sayyida_, you are called for."

"By my uncle?" she assumed, sensing the tangled forces gathering in opposition of her. So it seemed Fatimah was a coward.

"Yes."

"Wait outside for me," she commanded, and the herald swiftly bowed and backed out of the tent. Now alone with Razin she turned to him and hissed under her breath, "You see how they plot against me?"

"You cannot expect your actions earlier to go unnoticed," he returned solemnly.

"You taught me to defend myself."

"I taught you strategy."

His gaze was unwavering for his words rung true, and she angrily spun from him and marched out of the tent to follow the herald with Razin trailing at her heels. From such a distance, he could nearly see the waves of frustration and anger rolling off of her shoulders, and her stride was that of a defiant queen, one he had seen her master ever since she was old enough to walk. A smile hid in the corners of his lips, but he tucked it away as he followed Arwa into her uncle's grandiose tent and settled near the edge of the gathering.

Her uncle Sa'id, Fatimah, and various counselors were arranged in a semi-circle along the opposite edge of the tent, and Arwa's eyes coolly swept across each of them in turn only to halt abruptly.

"Nasr?" She recognized the young boy settled between his uncle and stepsister, and in his name were a thousand questions. His dark eyes, wide and fearful, returned her look, and he might have been the final lashing for his presence broke her. The blood boiled beneath her skin, giving strength to the power of her dangerous eyes, and she turned to her uncle as though he were the hand that had cut down her father and torn apart her family. "You bring him in opposition of me?"

Nasr flinched, wishing to stretch forward and call for his sister, but Sa'id's hand fell to his shoulder and kept the boy firmly in place. On instinct, Arwa reached for the dagger hidden in the folds of her dress. She could throw it deep into her uncle's forehead between those scheming eyes, but Razin's reminder of strategy made her breathe instead.

"This is not a trial, Arwa," her uncle began. "None sit in opposition of you."

"Truly?" she returned, the one word dripping with heavy sarcasm considering her lone position standing across from them. The men murmured under their breaths to each other, likely commenting on her haughty demeanor. Arwa recalled her dagger and pictured the scene as the guards rushed to take her. How many would Razin kill before they reached her?

She toyed with various numbers while her uncle continued, "You are called to acknowledge your behavior. Your conduct has been unfitting of your position."

"I am well aware of my responsibilities and the conduct by which I carry them out. I do not need a lesson on my station."

"Then you consider your encounter with your sister an example of upholding your duties?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation, and as swiftly, the men were whispering amongst themselves once more.

Flabbergasted, her uncle sputtered, "You attacked her!"

"I defended my father's name and my own honor." Her attention flickered to Fatimah whose silver tongue had suddenly turned to lead.

"Why would she wish to dishonor you or your father?"

"You ask the wrong sister."

Appropriately, her uncle turned to Fatimah who swallowed and assumed a sentimental air. "You distort my words, Arwa. I would never speak ill of my family."

"Calling me 'a whipped slave' is a compliment?"

The men all stretched to see Fatimah's response, and the older woman's guise evaporated until she was nearly shaking with irritation. "I spoke of your dress. You walk about with your injuries for all to see!"

"Do you not mourn your father?" their uncle contributed as a handler guides his herd in the direction he wishes.

Arwa's attention snapped to him with the warning resonating in her sharp features. "No one laments for him more than I."

"You do not cover yourself."

"I am humbled by the loss of my father, but I am not humiliated by the marks I bear. I won't veil my face in shame when I fought for my father and faced the Romans after his defeat."

"You show your arrogance by presenting yourself this way!"

"I have shown my scars. Where are yours?" she challenged.

His eyes widened at such an insult, and he bellowed, "Hold your tongue!" Arwa kept her lips sealed though her face defied him all the more as if the unspoken remarks formed her expression. Her uncle scrambled for the words to force her submission, and he motioned roughly toward Fatimah. "This is your only excuse for attacking your sister?"

Arwa allowed tense moments to pass only to prove the power of her presence before she curtly responded, "No."

"Tell us what remark was so offensive to warrant her death in your eyes?" His tone was condescending. He no doubt expected some trivial reason.

Arwa steeled herself, inexplicably hesitant before she divulged, "She called me a Roman whore."

All at once, the air was sucked from the tent, and the words settled where all was deathly quiet and still. Their gazes centered on Arwa as if they could peer through her to discover the truth themselves, and she fought away the quaking in her bones under their penetrating eyes.

Rather than turning to Fatimah as she expected, her uncle questioned, "Has she reason to suspect such?"

She felt Razin twitch behind her like a dog pulling against his leash, and it resonated more powerfully than the insult her uncle presented before all those gathered. From the corner of her eyes, she could see Fatimah struggling to withhold a smile. She did not answer, but in the silence, the truth tightened around her neck, making it harder to breathe.

"Is your virtue intact?" Malik pressed furiously and rose to his feet, but Arwa would not look at him. "Answer me!"

Her heart was beating through her chest, making her flinch with every repercussion; every strike was a memory. The noose was fit, and she sensed the crowed gathered in anticipation of her judgment. The answer caught in her throat.

"You let the Romans enjoy your flesh! You gave them your body to feast on!"

She wasn't sure who spoke the words. Her eyes flickered shut to escape this scene dissolving into chaos, but in the darkness, she saw their greedy hands beneath her dress, holding her, grabbing her, dirt covered nails digging into her skin. She stared at her uncle who was on his feet now and calling out a command though no words left his open mouth. She heard their crude laughter and the repercussion of their hips sinking into her thighs, making war with their rough jerks. They ridiculed her for the blood snaking down her thighs like the lines of black staining her cheeks. She had forgotten the strength to fight or to surrender to the knife they brandished, and in that way, she realized she was the coward.

"This is why you protect the Roman! For his company!"

"No," she mumbled through shaking lips. They were still bruised from his kisses, but he had cleaned away the evidence of his brothers and given her fresh clothes and a haven to escape. "He-" The one word snapped her into the present moment, and she realized there was no ground beneath her swinging toes. On one word she hung.

Guards took her arms and dragged her from the tent. Whose hands were these? She fought in their grip, her heart racing all through her, but it could not warm the chill of fear turning her bones to ice. They struggled to hold her more firmly, and their iron grips unlocked some deep instinct for survival. Flashes of the night blurred the truth; and she felt her attack with her hands beating their faces and pushing them back, but she could not fathom what tremendous force was guiding her. The searing sting of pain made her tumble into the moment, and she felt the breathless impact as she landed in the sand and stared terrified at the guard bending over her. Hands grabbed his face and twisted his neck with a deafening crack, and his body fell limp onto the ground at Arwa's side.

Razin was in the man's place, his face frozen in a look of fury, and he knelt to help her to her feet. Her hands blindly grasped for the familiarity of his embrace, her arms wound around his neck, her nails dug stubbornly into his skin as though she might be torn away at any moment, and her face buried into his chest to welcome his dense scent. She clung to him through her nervous shivering, and he held her more tightly to still her distress. Never had she collapsed to this vulnerability nor reached for him through the midst of it.

"Come, _'umri_," he coaxed in numb disgust, cursing the men in that tent who stripped her of her power. He drew them both to their feet. "It is time to leave."

He helped carry her weight to ease the wound in her thigh and noted that he would need to bandage it when they were out of reach. It would not be long before the men found the slain guards, but they were not far from where the horses were kept. Her grip around him loosened, content to lean against him with his arm around her waist, but she abruptly remembered, "The Roman!"

‡ ‡ ‡

The ropes were well tended, tight, layered, complicated, and his hands had long gone numb from their constriction. The pole was similarly indestructible and anchored, so that in the hours since the men had left, he had done little more than accrue enough frustration to make the blood crawl beneath the skin, create burns and tears around his wrists, and wholly exhaust himself. _Never admit defeat. Never surrender_… and yet his head hung once more between his shoulders, void of purpose or thought. Without the attention to stoke it, the fire had died at his side and shadows consumed the tent. He watched the light fade outside from pale to golden to crimson and finally black. Night brought the chill of the desert to invade his tent, and the sweat still clinging to his hair and back felt like ice on his skin. They had not given him water or food, had not untied him or addressed him. His tongue was rough and dry in his mouth, his throat raspy, and his body yearned for a drop of liquid to cool it. He would survive a while longer without food, but water –he licked his cracked lips but could offer them no moisture.

The lands were quiet outside, and he waited for sleep to consume him. Every cell in his body was in pain or discomfort, but he knew exhaustion would outweigh his aches with time. He waited.

As he was dozing with his chin on his chest, the rustle of fabrics pricked his ears. He remained still, breathing slowly, but he listened the more intently. They slipped around him, and he felt the ropes moving over his angry wounds. He snapped to attention and glanced over his shoulder to see the foreigner from that morning sawing apart the binds. They fell lax, and he drew his hands in front of him, opening and closing his fists to encourage the blood into them. They pricked under a thousand needles, the stretched muscles of his chest and shoulders ached deep toward the bone, but his spirit was renewed. She was leaning against the doorway, keeping her weight off one leg, and the man shifted in front of him once more and squatted as he pressed the end of a flask to his lips. He nearly swept it away suspiciously but felt the cool water meet his tongue, and then he took the leather pouch from him and drank until his lungs burned for need of breath. With the flask emptied, it fell to his lap, and he breathed heavily and wiped the water from his lips.

The man was now poised at the entrance listening for the guards' movements, and she waited for Maximus to finish before she whispered, "We must hurry."

He pushed himself to his feet, withholding a groan as his aching muscles and bones contracted and adjusted to let him stand. Once on his feet, the man slipped through the opening, and the woman moved after him. Maximus caught her elbow to restrain her, and she twisted to face him with an alarmed look. He searched her face, barely visible in the night's light, and questioned, "Why are you doing this?"

Her eyes darted uneasily whether from his proximity or her uncertainty, but she quietly revealed, "A life for a life."

The truth was in her eyes, burning even through this darkness, and he released her. The trio stalked out of the tent with the man in the lead. She was limping heavily ahead of him, and when they paused behind the cover of another tent, she placed her hand on the man's arm to rest a moment. He watched the guards surrounding a fire. They talked amongst themselves without noticing their prisoner fleeing nearby. The man redirected their route, keeping low and swift between tents with the woman at his side, and Maximus followed and mirrored their every move. Finally they reached the edge of the campgrounds where all shelter ended. Ahead, the horses were tied, and Maximus understood their next move.

"They will see us," he whispered to her, and she snapped his direction, throwing him a severe look to quiet his tongue.

After brief moments of contemplation, she decided, "We must run," and whispered the same thought to her guard.

"It is suicide," Maximus pressed.

"Remaining here is suicide."

His brow furrowed unconsciously to hear her included in his predicament, but he had no time for questions. Without warning, the man bolted from behind the tent and toward the horses. No sooner had his first foot touched the sand did the guards sound off their calls. Maximus was on her heels, waiting for the pierce of an arrow in his side and running all the more swiftly as though Mercury had given him haste. Within moments they reached the horses, and she was already bent, scrambling with shaky hands to cut open the horses' binds. Maximus faced the guards charging their direction mere feet from meeting them, and his hands flexed impotently at his sides with no weapon to protect them.

"Hurry!" he hissed, already mapping out a defensive strategy with his bare hands and preparing to engage the first one.

The blade whistled through the air past Maximus' ear, sinking into the first guard's neck. He fell, and Maximus turned to see the man already mounted on one of the steeds. He swiftly caught the woman around the waist and drew her in front of him, and Maximus took the other horse. Already other members of the tribe were running from their tents and ready for the attack. His heels dug into the stallion, and the Arabian horse took to a gallop faster than any steed he had ridden. He gripped the reigns more tightly, bending forward to encourage their speed, and followed the pair leading the way. The man avoided the guards rather than rushing them, and weaponless, Maximus was forced to follow suit.

By night the winds swept across the lands, chilling him to the bone, and only the stars lit the sky to give them any sense of depth and space. How they knew their way, he could not fathom, but he blindly obeyed their route with no other option available. They seemed to ride endlessly, the horizon never changing before his eyes, nothing but waves of endless dunes surrounded them. His hands were numb with cold as were his feet and nose. The air pricked his eyes and made his lungs burn, but these pains he could endure with the promise of escape.

The dawn was awaking on the horizon, and through the flimsy veil of night, Maximus could make out the flickering of fire in the distance. The Roman camp. He had never been more pleased to see its stark arrangement, but he soon realized the threat it presented for his new allies.

He rode up beside the man and warned, "You cannot enter the camp!"

The man ignored him, perhaps unable to translate his threat, and Maximus only then realized she was limp in the foreigner's arms. Her head hung heavily against his chest with her eyes closed, and the pallor of her once bronze features alarmed him. Without warning, he grabbed the reigns and forced the horses to slow. The horses jostled uneasily at their sudden change in command, and the man reached for his sword to cut off the hand impeding their route.

Maximus did not release his grip and caught the man's gaze to press, "They will kill you and her!"

He frowned deeply as though Maximus had insulted him, but she murmured something softly to the man and proved that she was still conscious. They had a brief exchange, and ultimately, the foreigner turned to Maximus. His features were carved of pure fury, jealousy, and suspicion, but he passed her over to the Roman's care. Once she was settled in front of him on the horse, he felt the damp fabric doused in her blood and cold from the winds. He nodded curtly to the foreigner as some unspoken promise shared between men and took off as swiftly as he could for the camp. Every passing minute made the weight of her head unbearable. Her body was exhausted and drained, and she wished to lower her head and sleep eternally, to sink into that seductive, all-consuming darkness. Only his voice in her ear kept her lids from falling, growling out in a raspy command, "Stay with me."

By morning they reached the Roman camp, and he dismounted the horse and caught her in his arms before her leaden body could collapse to the ground. She was limp and would not respond to his calls, and the throng of men gathering around him would not give Maximus the room to breathe. He was shouting a thousand different commands, and finally he broke through the crowd to find his tent. Camp followers and doctors rushed to his aid, and he laid her on his cot and stepped away for them to care for her injury. As the panic of the day wore off, bone-crushing fatigue took its place, and he settled onto a stool to await their verdict with his head lolling forward every few seconds.

The wound on her thigh was stitched, rubbed with ointment, and then tightly bandaged, and the physician explained, "She has lost much blood. We dressed the wound as best we could, but I cannot predict where she will be nightfall." A fresh burden fell to Maximus' chest, and he realized it was guilt -that this affair and her fate were somehow of his own doing. She had saved his life by betraying her people, and now he feared that he could not rescue her. The physician reached to address the wounds on Maximus' face, but the general brushed the man aside as though swatting away a pest. His attention was centered on her resting on his cot, and without speaking the direction, the group was dismissed from his presence. He expected Cassius would call on him when the news reached his tent, but he prayed the commander would grant him the most valuable gift in their ranks: time.

Maximus stood and drew his stained tunic off his shoulders, not bothering to assess the numerous bruises and cuts riddling his skin. Rather, he crept toward the cot and slipped beneath the blanket beside her. The narrow bed left no space between them, but she felt cold in his arms so he wrapped the heat of his body around her, careful to avoid her leg. She did not speak or move, and he could no longer abate sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hey gorgeous gals! So a bit of an action packed chapter haha If things seem abrupt, that's done purposefully. It's not in my nature to be short, but I really wanted to give this chapter the feeling that things are just spiraling out of control around both of them. Also, don't disregard Razin and Arwa's planning at the start of the chapter. You'll find out what they're scheming about and what role Maximus has in it all :) Translations: _al-Sayyida_ is a title that essentially means "my lady" & _'umri_ means "my life" so it's another term of endearment.

Thanks to Audreyxoxo and Syrena Swift for the awesome reviews! :)

Audrey: Ah you're so sweet haha This one was lacking my usual descriptive flair, but hopefully you still enjoyed it :D Hahaha your comment about Razin is _very_ interesting, and it's funny because I hadn't fully developed his character in my head until I read your review. I think their encounters in this chapter give you a bit more of an answer, which is to say... their relationship is complicated. Arwa is probably in her early 20s, and Razin would be 15-20 years older than her. I mean we probably cringe at that in modern times, but for this time period it's not that crazy (Cleopatra was 21 when she met Caesar [52] and then had his baby). That being said, I'm not saying he's a love interest or not. He's actually inspired by Oded Fehr who I have a major crush on, so we'll see in my fangirl-ness comes into effect haha Wow this was a long response... Thanks for the review, gorgeous! xoxo

Syrena: Hahaha I can't remember the last time I saw the video! And I was equally disturbed watching it again... The remote? Oh goodness X( That being said, I'm so happy to have your amazing photo/videos once more! How exciting :D I'm glad you like Arwa but also slightly surprised. She's kinda of a bitch and pushes everyone, but that's how I made her haha Maximus will hopefully mellow her out a little before he gags her and ties her in a corner like shut up! Soooo... I hope you enjoyed this chapter, lovely xoxo


	4. Allies & Enemies

Chapter 4  
>"Allies &amp; Enemies"<p>

He examined her distorted figure, shoulders and knees twisted awry, as she sought comfort in sleep. The position heightened her slender curves, the soft shoulders, lissome waist, and long legs curled beneath the blanket. One hand was lifted toward her head with her knuckles grazing her brow and fingers drooping toward her palm. The loss of blood had drained her strength so that she had slept the entirety of a day, and there she still dozed as heavily as a babe with lips parted to allow her deep breaths. Her features were warming with time, a promising sign all around, and she had slept through the night in his arms. Yet again Maximus considered whether he should wake her to force her to eat or drink something, and yet again he decided to let her rest. He addressed the task of fastening his chest plate around his sore body and ignored the sharp flare of pain in his ribs as he tightened the leather straps. Sleep had reinvigorated him along with their return to the Roman camp, and now his pride made him face the day rather than rest. He would not want weakness to betray his reputation.

The flap of his tent rustled, and Maximus' attention snapped toward Aulus who paused in the threshold. The general's gaze held a warning, and Aulus retreated outside to wait for his friend. With one last glance at his captive, Maximus slipped out into the morning light. The camp was alive and swarming with all manner of activities: camp followers served food, men loitered around fires exchanging stories, others tended to wounds, but most were packing their gear.

Maximus' brow twitched unconsciously. "We march?"

"The barbarians know our location. Our camp is no longer safe," Aulus answered as the pair walked toward Cassius' grand tent.

"How many were lost?"

"In the morning?" Maximus nodded stiffly, and Aulus gazed across the grounds they passed. "Ten guards in all. The prisoners helped like they knew –like this was their plan all along. Almost all were taken but the slaves from Cassius' tent. Needless to say he's furious." The general smirked and adjusted his wrist fenders which hid the torn and angry skin from his binds. By most looks, he was not obviously injured aside from the cuts and bruises on his face. "We assumed you were dead."

"By morning this time, I would have been."

"You were the only soldier they took." The question underlined his statement with some malicious intent, and only then did the suspicious looks from passing soldiers register in Maximus' mind. He was almost startled by his own ignorance, but these dark thoughts did not manifest on his stoic expression.

"I was the only to wake and attempt to stop them."

"They moved like phantoms through the camp."

"Perhaps the men were too drunk to hear their steps," Maximus suggested gruffly.

Aulus grabbed his arm, and Maximus turned to him with a fierce glare as if ready for an unnamed battle. "Be wary, my friend. Your enemies are often your allies." The general's features hardened, and Aulus explained, "I'm preparing you for the men waiting in Cassius' tent. They will twist your words into the sword cutting you down."

"I am guilty of nothing."

"I trust your loyalty. We've campaigned for months, Meridius. I know your mind and heart. You are a good soldier, but you are not versed in their politics. Watch your every word."

Maximus exhaled uneasily and turned to consider Cassius' tent as though he could see through the canvas to the intents' of the men inside. When his blue eyes slid back to his friend, he clapped Aulus on the shoulder. "Thank you."

"Go."

Maixmus moved from his brother in arms, and the guards allowed him into the tent while one announced his presence. The Roman generals were gathered at the table that had celebrated their victory days prior. It's barren wood showed the stains from the wine of that night, now smeared into the grain like blood on a temple's altar. The men were dangerously sober, and Maximus stood before them bearing the pride of an innocent man.

"Young Meridius," Cassius acknowledged with a jovial grin, too full of teeth to be amiable, "the gods have returned you to us. Come and sit. You have endured a terrible hardship."

"As a soldier, I've braved harsher circumstances and worse wounds," he countered but accepted the vacant seat. A servant poured him wine, and he leisurely sipped from his cup, all the while inspecting the men from over the lip.

"Of course," Cassius agreed and laughed heartily. The other men joined in, but all sound ceased abruptly as Cassius leaned across the table toward the young general. "They were stupid to leave you your life."

"A mistake Romans would not have made."

"A dead man cannot lie."

"My tongue fortunately saved my head."

"Tell us, Maximus, how you escaped captivity."

He swallowed thickly as he realized the corner his pride had garnered him. A lie would save him from mentioning the woman's involvement, and yet he could not fathom a situation where he escaped single-handedly and returned to the camps with her in tow. Aulus was right. He was not versed in their politics –lying.

"I gained an unexpected ally," he revealed at length.

Cassius raised his worn brow until the wrinkles on his face formed a map. "An interesting development."

"Unexpected," he repeated purposefully. "By morning, I thought I would be dead, not riding into our camp."

"How did you find this ally?"

"You gave her to me."

Silence fell over the tent, heavy and dense. They anticipated this relationship, but they had not expected him to admit it with such a level tone and calm expression. They could not penetrate his armor to see the tense hand twisting his gut.

"The barbarian whore?" Cassius clarified, and he took Maximus' silence as consent. Then, all at once, he threw his head back and laughed. When he could stifle his bellowing, he admitted, "I was not aware of your talents –to convince a woman to betray her people."

Again, Maximus had no response.

"Is your company so enjoyable?" he pried roughly. Maximus ran his fingers along the embossed designs on his cup, considering Cassius from beneath his brow without speaking a word. The commander was fast losing his patience, and his pleasant guise began fraying. "Why would a leader's daughter turn her back on her people for her enemy? To return to our camps?"

Finally, he offered the same reasoning she had given him, "A life for a life."

Cassius stiffened with his face contorting in a perplexed look of disgust. "What is this?"

"The only explanation I received, and the only one I have to give."

"Such a motive is senseless."

"Senseless or otherwise, I have my life." Maximus grinned humorlessly and titled his cup in Cassius' direction.

"You fall to her trickery," he returned with his beady eyes alight in fury. "She hides her true purpose."

"You fear an unconscious girl?" Cassius' palm landed loudly on the wood, and Maximus recalled his station though not without a bitter look thrown towards the men watching their battle of words. Their silent tongues and heavy gazes had his skin crawling. "Her wounds are not at my hands." He settled back against his chair and suggested near a growl, "Perhaps her mercy comes after her people turn on her."

"Or she wounds herself, saves you, and gains your trust."

"She has gained nothing," Maximus leveled though the seed of distrust was planted deep in his mind, and his attention fell to the swaying of his wine in his cup.

"You protect her," Cassius accused sharply, and Maximus' eyes shot up to his commander.

"You search for answers, as do I."

"We Romans have very particular methods for extracting information."

_Torture_, Maximus finished with a hot exhale through his nostrils, and he readjusted his seat, now too impatient to remain still. "If you suspect me of betrayal, say it."

"What guilt does your conscience bear?"

"None."

"They asked you for knowledge of our camps?"

"Yes."

"And…?"

"Would I have these marks if I were agreeable?" he snarled back like an angry dog snapping its teeth. "If I were a traitor, would I have returned? I offered my death and nothing more."

Cassius glanced at the men who returned his expression, each brimming with mutual resignation, and Maximus' fingers drummed uneasily on his cup as he waited for the sentence to be given. Instead, Cassius lifted his hand and flicked two fingers toward the threshold. Maximus' chin lowered suspiciously, but Cassius had no more consideration left for the general.

With a tense jaw, Maximus rose to his feet, furious with being dismissed like a servant, but asked, "When do we march?"

"Three days' time," Cassius murmured distantly. "We return to Resafa." Maximus turned then, and his commander called to him, "Hope that she wakes and gives you answers before that time… Faustus will wish to hear it."

His hands unconsciously curled to fists at his sides, the only barrier between the rush of rage pummeling through him and Cassius' self-satisfied smirk. He swallowed down the bitter taste coating his throat and left the tent. Hadrien and Aulus were waiting for him at the exterior, but one look at the wrath splayed across his features made them keep their distance. Maximus turned from them and walked toward his tent. Every step loosened his grip on his anger, and he felt the beast spreading through his veins to poison every cell in his body. By the time he ducked inside his tent, he was searching for something to break. Instead, he met her dark eyes, wide and aware. They distracted him like she reached into him and jerked him from his fury's hold. He took his cup, filled it with fresh water, and passed it to her.

After a few quiet sips, she wondered in a raspy and fatigued voice, "Where is Razin?"

Silent, Maximus brusquely gathered the balm and fresh bandages before he sat on the edge of the bed and drew the blanket from her leg. She stiffened as he rolled her dress up to her thighs where he could see the dressing, and he untied the edges. Though his frustration bundled into a jagged ball into the center of his chest, his rough hands were as gentle as he could manage, unwinding the bandage from her thigh. Her eyes closed inexplicably, but he didn't look away from his work, concentrated completely on the smooth skin coming into view. Once the bandage fell lax in his hands, he set it aside and bent closer to examine the red, angry stitching. More distracting were the scattered chills raised across her bronze skin –no doubt a reaction to his hands. Such a simple response for his touch. What would she do were it his searing breath?

He swallowed dryly and glanced at her, eyes closed and fingers tangled in the blanket. "What is your name?" It seemed an odd question to ask considering all that they had endured, but it was part of the mystery shrouding her. He yearned to rip it from her, but his fingers merely massage the balm across her wound.

Her features twitched with pain, and she licked her lips. "al-'Amira al-'Anbat Arwa bint Khalid." As swiftly as she spelled out the name, his features fell without any notion where to unravel the long title. She adjusted her head to watch him, amused by his confusion, and smiled impishly. "Arwa."

"Arwa," he tried though the name lost its beauty with his raspy voice, and he considered her dark eyes. She nodded. The simple exchange satisfied him more than he wished to admit, but in the light of day, he thought he might resolve the riddle surrounding her.

"Where is Razin?" she asked once more, patient but a little breathless. The edges of his lips twitched as he gently wrapped the linen around her wound, dragging his fingers along her inner thighs and across her skin. His scarred knuckles brushed her dress further up her thigh only to test how far she would allow it.

"Your people –they did this to you?"

"Yes."

"Why?" When he looked at her, her mahogany eyes stared back, agitated and simmering with anger as if she suddenly recalled that she despised him. He tied off her dressing, and she hissed at his rough jerk. Rather than apologizing, he waited.

"Traitor," she whispered the word like she were fearful to say it openly. Maximus knew the feeling well but could not understand.

"Who did you betray?" Her eyes closed again, and her head lolled away from him. "Arwa," he tried in gruff snap, and she winced as though her name was a blade from his lips.

"They called me a Roman whore," she answered in the same low tone. "I am the enemy… Without your tribe, you are nothing. You are dead." Her voice broke, but her features were carved from stone, so disjunctive a contrast that Maximus waited for her to crumble into pieces. "I am a coward for living."

He left the material sinking between her thighs with one leg covered by the blanket and stood to retrieve his platter of meats and bread. She didn't adjust the material to shroud herself, but perhaps she didn't have the strength or couldn't be bothered to consider anything beyond the memories plaguing. He set the platter where he had sat only moments earlier and took the stool near the fire, stoking it to steal the last minutes of warmth and light from its dying embers. The glow sank into her skin, and he openly considered the angles of her body, tousled mane of her onyx hair, and full lips pressed in a line before offering, "You would have taken your life had the guards not stopped you."

She swallowed, and he watched her slender throat contort and release. "I have not tried again."

Her bare skin reflected the guise slipping slowly, carefully, and his hands were guiding it away. "Death is easy," he murmured once he became aware of the heavy silence. "I've watched men surrender to its seduction… Life takes strength." She turned to gaze at him, perhaps suspicious whether his words were kind or condescending. He inspected her mahogany eyes, so dark and deep, they seemed a black abyss poised to consume all they touched, and they drew the words without his consent, "You are stronger than any woman I've met –Roman or otherwise."

They mesmerized him with the torrent of emotions smoldering behind their glassy surface. "You hate me for it."

He looked toward the dying embers and commanded, "Eat." His one word had the effect of a sharp breath snuffing a flame, and likewise their brief understanding evaporated into air. In the silence, he recalled Cassius' words –words of distrust and betrayal. They lived still in his mind, biting at him like a snake spreading the last of its venom. His thoughts were poison. His tongue needed to spit it out.

"You are more trouble than you're worth," he snapped abruptly.

"Your life is worth so little?"

He smirked at her stubborn pride laced beneath her weary tone. "You cannot realize the mess you've made." She did not respond, and he discovered her eyes were closed once more as a crease formed in her brow. A warm slight prick shifted his thoughts toward compassion, but he kept them at bay and warned, "You will give me answers."

"I am not your servant," she challenged through her dense tone.

"You are my slave."

Her lashes barely parted to reveal the orbs behind them. Even so he could see their fury. "I saved you."

"And I have taken you in, given you water and food, and cared for your wound. Do not think you have command over me. We made no pact." He bent forward to be on level with her eyes and inspected them closely. "You should have let me die."

Her tongue was silenced, and he was pleased with this flash of obedience that he stood and considered the supplies he would need to pack. He considered his men who were no doubt waiting for his instructions. "We march in three days –north." He glanced over his shoulder to explain, "You will never see your desert or people again."

"There is only death for me here," she whispered softly.

"Death follows no matter your place."

Without another word, he slipped from his tent, too agitated by the burden of her company and the knot forming in his chest. He dedicated himself to multiple tasks to avoid her though never admitting she had the power to keep him from his tent.

‡ ‡ ‡

Silence. He took his poisonous energy with him, and in its place, she remembered the dry, burnt taste of the air on her tongue. Arwa's eyes closed with nothing to occupy them, and she welcomed the black of her lids. She could pretend that she had surrendered to death and was consumed in the center of nothing. She felt less disoriented lost in blackness than examining the confines of his tent –her physical limitations. The darkness was limitless, voracious, cold. It was peaceful in the deep. Pain laced her body, drawing her attention to her exposed leg. She should cut it off for its betrayal. His callused hands drew too close, and she expected them to drag her under into the memories of that night. Instead, she couldn't escape the feel of his rough hands circling her leg and treating her wound so tenderly it pained her more than the dagger that had cut open her thigh. Her body reacted beyond her wishes until the fire in her leg spread into her belly and abandoned her to numbness in its wake. The numbness she hated.

She could hear their voices, random Roman soldiers barking out commands, answering calls, recalling instructions, discussing indiscretions… It seemed a thousands voices swarming the tent. Wrapping her in the enemies' hands. Razin was right as he always was –this plan was foolishness. She would never live. She had misunderstood her captor. His compassion collided too often with his temper, and in the flare, she was singed.

_Slave,_ her mind repeated, and she frowned deeply. What now would he do with her? Had his hands been a warning?

Her stomach turned, and she tangled her fingers in the blankets, willing away the weight of reality crushing her. The blackness betrayed her, and she sensed some malicious force swirling in its depth. She lost her handle. Her nails dug in. A cold sweat broke across her brow. She was careening headlong…

_You surrender so swiftly, nuur il-'en_.

She settled into the cot, feeling dense and heavy as a rock, but she was grounded by the memory of Razin's words. She missed the comfort of his company. His presence almost seemed an extension of her own, so long and often had he been by her side. He taught her to be strong –like her father, and she recalled her strength. It was scattered throughout her, but she swept the pieces together and knew they would form with time into the support that carried her through every hardship.

Her breath was calm now, and she no longer felt the panic as if she were falling into an empty pit. She opened her eyes and studied the slender wooden beams tied into place and draped with taut canvas. Daylight filtered through the lax threshold with the flap moving with the desert wind, and she thought of their journey north, where her mother was born. She had the sensation of her life drawing her toward her roots, and there she felt more secrets would be revealed. It was the type of intuition her mother had cautioned her against ignoring when she was young.

She would find vengeance in the north.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hey lovelies! I apologize for the delay, but it was Spring Break -meaning I was either too busy or too "incapacitated" (shifty eyes) to write. I realize this chapter was a bit shorter than my usual, but it's kind of an interlude considering the last chapter was very fast paced. This will be better explained in the future chapters, but Resafa (known as Sergiopolis in Roman times, which I think is a dumb name frankly) was part of the Limes Arabicus -line of forts and watchtowers running along Arabia Petraea to protect the "Province of Arabia" from attacks by the tribes of the desert frontier. They'll stay there for quite some time in case you find the change of setting abrupt.

Thank you to bayumlikedayum, KingofTruands, and Raven for the awesome reviews! :D

bayum: You're so sweet! :) I'm glad you like that I've gone into his past. I wondered if people would find it too much of a departure from the film to enjoy, but I'm very happy you like it! haha And Arwa is indeed an advocate of girl power... I have way more fun scenes planned out -ehm fight scene between her and Maximus, maybe? Thank you so much for kind words, and I apologize again for taking such a freakin' long time in getting this up! Hope you liked this chapter, doll xoxo

King: How badass is it that I just get to refer to you as King? hahaha I don't usually say this so soon into a relationship, but love ya too! Oh my gosh I think I'm blushing... I hope you liked this chapter, though I don't know how you can top a dedication of love :P

Raven: Reading a novel? OMG that's too sweet of a compliment haha I'm a work in progress by all fronts, but I'm so happy you're enjoying the story thus far! I appreciate you saying you thought the characters were balanced because I actually had second thoughts about Arwa. A lot of bad shit has happened to her, but I kinda needed her to be beaten down and detached from everything to have her where I want for the story. In any case, I hope you liked this update xoxo


	5. All Eyes Point North

Chapter 5  
>"All Eyes Point North"<p>

By the third day, she found the strength to stand, whether through her own health, impatience, boredom, or any combination. Her black gown was wrinkled, torn, and soiled, but she refused to exchange it for the plain linen tunics the Roman women donned. As the reality of her situation set in, she found herself clinging more and more to the things –no matter how menial– which made her who she was. Her hair needed to be brushed, and it hung listlessly down to her hip. The braids which had held pieces from her face were now knotted in ways she dreaded addressing. It would be easier to allow a servant to attend to her, wash her hair with oil, and gently comb out the tangles until the dark chestnut locks were glossy and tamed instead of a disheveled mess. How her mother would cringe to see her.

In the reflection of Maximus' washbowl, she didn't recognize herself. The loss of blood had drained the color from her skin, and her flesh sunk beneath her cheekbones and at her temples, like a mask distorting the woman behind. Her wounds from her first night in the Roman camp were healing, but the scabs and yellow bruises were still unavoidable. She splashed cold water on her face and began rubbing in small circles all over, trying to scrub away that unwanted layer. The pressure and roughness hurt her skin, but she ignored it and scrubbed diligently at her eyes. Only so much of the black could be taken away as she realized the shadow around her socket wasn't remnants of kohl. The skin was pulled tightly over her features to reflect her dehydration, and her eyes were sunken with a dark halo of skin around each. The ghost of her haunted that reflection, and she stared unattached trying to piece together a puzzle without the picture to guide her.

Her body ached. Weariness permeated bone deep, and already in three days she felt her muscles had dissolved to pulp. Gritty sand and sweat lined her skin, scratching and irritating her at every move, but she didn't dare remove her garments. She was too acutely aware of the Romans loitering outside her tent –too familiar with what they could do. Her eyes burned as she faced the sunlight slipping through the canvas flap, and cautiously she crept closer toward the threshold, bending slightly so that one eye could peer through the space. A soldier passed by feet from the tent, and she unconsciously jerked away into the shadows. Her heart was in her throat, her breath suddenly erratic, and she cursed herself for her fragile nerves. She was the daughter of Khalid, one of the most powerful tribal leaders, and here she was cowering like a common, _Roman_ wench. She steeled herself, pushed aside the flap, and stepped out into the morning sunlight.

She winced, momentarily blinded by the sun's fire, but as her gaze adjusted and focused, she could see the swarming camp. No one took notice of her at first, and she reveled in the chance at invisibility and openly observed the soldiers about their work. Carts were being loaded with various supplies, piled high until the planks of wood were bending with their burden, and she wondered what men needed so much but cared for so little –like thieves, hoarding the spoils of war, and yet gluttons of austerity. She didn't understand the Roman mentality. In her culture, soldiers were proud, they were respected, their armor reflected this, they carried themselves as such. Romans were tenacious, violent, and loutish. How did such men command vast power?

Her chin inadvertently lifted a few degrees, and she surveyed their work as a queen looks upon peasants. From such an angle, she realized the glances thrown her direction. Few looked up from their labors to discover her on their own, but word of her presence spread like wildfire through the camps. Within minutes, she could watch the news fanning out like a wave, and the faces turned toward her. She assumed what they were thinking and held herself straighter, taller, higher. Still, she couldn't deny the uneasiness creeping down her spine. The proportion was too uneven: She was literally circled by her enemy with only one man's reputation, station, and word to keep them at bay. Her small haven awaited her, but she couldn't retreat. They stole everything from her, and in this moment, she stood her ground –no matter how foolishly.

He caught her attention, and she turned to consider his approach. His usually handsome brow was burrowed with fury, blue eyes alight even in the sun, but she was too concerned with her personal feud to be bothered by his masculine authority. He was eternally angry with her; thus, his frustration grew to have little effect on her. Why did he nurse her to health if she were such a thorn in his side? She was as baffled by his motives as the rest of his Roman brethren, and she gazed past him toward a group of men laughing amongst themselves. Their spearing looks turned her heart to stone, and it crumbled to her feet. The ground might swallow her whole, suffocate her and squeeze the life from her, and that would be a more forgiving end than facing these men. Realizing they had her attention, an obscene gesture was thrown her direction, and her nostrils flared unconsciously. They erupted into laughter.

A hand on her elbow tore away her gaze, and Maximus was seething. "Get in the tent," he growled under his breath.

Her features were stoic, but her mahogany eyes were glowing as severely as his. His gaze narrowed in a silent warning, and she looked beyond him once more where the group of men were watching their exchange and waiting for Maximus to show her her place. Not even the gods could force her steps at this moment. Maximus followed her gaze to the soldiers loitering about their work and wondered why they would catch her attention. Then he noticed the satisfied, crooked smirk on one man's face, and the realization pummeled into him. His jaw clenched, and he nodded firmly in command. Reluctantly, the soldiers turned and continued their work. He watched them for a moment, marking their faces into his memory, before he considered Arwa and repeated, "Get inside."

She briefly appraised his eyes, and for whatever reason, she turned and limped into the tent.

Maximus glanced at the group a final time, pleased that they had averted their attentions, and followed after her. She rested her palms on the edge of the cot and cautiously twisted to sit down, balancing on one foot and keeping her injured leg straight. She feared tearing the stitches though she was sure they would do no such thing. Admittedly, she was not often injured. In fact facing the Romans was her first true battle, but she didn't wish to confess such things to this man. Mystery was a powerful thing –for both.

Maximus retrieved the plans he had neglected to return to a fellow general that morning. He could have sent a servant in his stead, but he avoided foreign company in his tent considering… He hadn't expected her to be on her feet so soon, but then again he realized her stiff limp could barely be called walking. How would she ride in the morning? He pushed it aside to consider that evening when he could spare more attention to his captive. Duty kept him busy, and mostly he was grateful for that. Their conversations were few, sporadic, short, and only necessitated by basic need. He knew little more of her than he had the first night he found her, and while every shift of her body intrigued him, with her loaded glance, he remained distant.

"I'm not a child," she said abruptly, her look severe.

"You're my slave. You're not to leave the tent unless under my command." His stomach churned unexpectedly, and only then did he realize he had forgotten to eat. He set aside the plans and found the stool beside the fire with an exhausted sigh. He tore a piece of stale bread and chewed it silently, pretending he didn't recall why he remained in his cot too late into the morning for food. She had spoken in her sleep –broken, drowsy, foreign slurs that meant nothing to him, and yet he was mesmerized watching her lips mouth the words.

"Is kindness looked down upon among your people?" she provoked with the effect of a bored child prodding an animal with a stick. Likewise, Maximus' eyes rolled toward her, simultaneously agitated and too slack to do anything else. "You treat me like a beast."

He snorted, and the edges of his mouth drew into a sardonic smile.

"Now you laugh at me."

"I'm envisioning the luxury of your childhood to find this," he sat up to gaze about his sparse tent, "so poor."

"I speak of the austerity of your character, not your quarters."

"If you find my company displeasing, you're welcome to any other man who will take you," he countered. "You know some of them well."

The bitter words left a sour taste on his tongue, and he quickly tore off another piece of bread. Her eyes widened, as if she were genuinely surprised he had reached so low, and that brought him guilt more than he wished to admit.

"Is that what you want? To be rid of me?"

He didn't answer.

"You brought me here –after I saved you. Is that why you hate me? Because your pride can't accept being saved by a woman?"

"I brought you here out of obligation because you saved me," he snapped back and sustained her furious gaze. "But each day you defy me, I feel less obliged to shield you."

"I don't need your protection-"

"Then you are blinded by your pride. I hold your life. They would gladly take you as often as they pleased, oblivious of your wounds, until you wished one would finally put a dagger to your throat and kill you. Do not make an enemy of me, girl." He threw the rest of the bread on the platter, having suddenly lost his appetite, and grumbled, "I am far kinder than my brothers."

Silence settled thickly between them, a rare feat to quiet this woman, and she pictured the routine of their brief time together. Each day he treated her wounds and watched for infections, he gave her food and water, and he shared his bed at night without asking for anything in return. His negligent attitude toward her, always vexed by her presence and behavior, stoked her pride to flare up at any given moment, but he had been kind to her –in his own way.

Maximus recalled his responsibility to return the plans, but first he coaxed, "Let me see." She shifted forward on the cot where he could attend her leg, but he reached past to her arm and carefully unwound the bandage. He took her elbow and guided her arm to an angle where he could better see the progress of its healing. She gazed at the wound as well, slightly disgusted by its garish edges, but the balm was doing its work quicker than she had anticipated. It was not so red and inflamed as she remembered. Her mahogany eyes strayed beyond her injury to his face, examining the features creased in thought and so close to her, and her stomach receded two degrees too high, making her feel anxious and nervous.

"It heals well," he acknowledged, more to himself than her. "In a week, perhaps, the stitches can be removed."

"You know much of medicine," she commented in so low a tone, his ears perked up to catch it.

His blue eyes flickered to her face, and he smiled –not a smirk, not a sneer, not a grin, but a brief, fleeting smile. "I've been injured many times."

He released her arm and recovered the bandage to wind around it once more, and she pictured his naked back from her first night in this camp, scattered with scars that had healed long before she ever knew his name. She swallowed and muttered a reluctant, "Thank you."

He didn't hear her as he tied off the edges and stood to retrieve his plans. The cloak of duty and purpose shrouded him, and she recognized its weight on his broad shoulders. With his back to her, he instructed, "I have matters to attend. Remain inside." He glanced over his shoulder, features now cared from stone. "Do you understand?"

Her lips flattened into a line, a flimsy barrier between his face and the various cruelties springing to her tongue, and she stiffly nodded. He turned and left.

She stared at the swinging flap of the tent, and her posture subtly sank, carving out a hollow space around her middle as she bent over her knees. She longed for her mother and her cool touch, one light sweep across her brow or cheek and the fires plaguing her were smothered. She longed for her father whose booming voice was all the more enjoyable when it was preoccupied with a laugh. His voice could barrel through the camps: It was infectious whether in its mirth or in its purpose, and those around him always listened and followed suit. Finally, she missed Razin. He could at once obey and command her, but forever he supported her. Where was he? The Roman would never answer this question, and that terrified Arwa as if the two men had made a secret pact behind her back. Yet, each day she expected him to materialize from the sand like he always did –to wake her with his gentle tone and offer to take her away. She had forgotten what it meant to fear when Razin had eternally protected her from harm. Whatever rose to threaten her, she could face with the knowledge that he was standing at her back and prepared to throw himself before her. In her youth, she thought he was invincible, like some demi-breed of the gods, a warrior and nothing else. Why did he not come? Had Death stolen all that she had?

Loneliness was not a feeling she was accustomed to. Its barbed edges cut her insides and made her cringe at thoughts of her loved ones. She wrapped her arms around her middle as if to suffocate the beast from her, and she remembered the reason she was here.

‡ ‡ ‡

Maximus adjusted the wooden piece on the map, and it was the best guess he could make since his escape. "Here."

Cassius sat leisurely in his chair while other more active generals bent to see where he had marked their camps.

"They will have left by now," he added if only to lessen the impact of his crude estimation. The desert's endless dunes made him blind especially by night. "Where they would flee is unclear."

"It is not our job to find them," Cassius said. "They could lead us around the desert for years before we caught them. No, we will make them come to us."

"They will need resources," one general agreed.

Cassius smiled and barely nodded. "Precisely."

"We cannot rely on the Limes Arabicus," Maximus spoke up. "They have snuck past our lines enough to be experts at it. They know the weak points in the system."

"Faustus received direct grants from Lucius to bolster the Limes where necessary, and guards will be stationed along the routes."

Addressing Lucius Verus with their more taxing military concerns was a tactic too often employed. The weaker of the two emperors sharing Rome's seat, it would only be a matter of time before Lucius gave way to full control by Marcus Aurelius who was the shrewder and wiser leader. He would not whittle away Rome's gold for so far a war.

"Then we will wait," Maximus assumed.

"We need for the tribes to come out from their desert and search for supplies. Faustus will better inform us of his plans when we reach Resafa." Cassius inhaled slowly and scratched at his dimpled chin. "More immediate concerns are upon us. The march north will leave us vulnerable to ambush. We will need a line of guards stationed at the fore and end points of the caravan."

"We should send scouts ahead to survey the territory and find safe areas for our camp at night," Hadrien suggested.

The men murmured their agreement, and Cassius nodded briefly. "You offer your men?"

Hadrien stood proudly. "Any of my soldiers would more than qualified for this task."

"Good. Make your decisions and inform your men. I will expect to be briefed by morning."

"They think us weak at night," Maximus added. "Our guards should be doubled."

Cassius idly rolled his gold ring around his finger. "Since you were so intuitive to catch the intruders the last time they invaded our camp, I pray your soldiers are similarly enlightened… I leave it to you, Meridius, to plan the posts and tell the men. I will like a list in my hand by morning."

"You will have it," he promised, pleased even by so simple a task. Any opportunity to prove his worth was favorable.

Gradually, their discussions shifted to other matters of their journey in the morning. They reviewed plans of the line of guards, who would defend the various carts, in what order they would march, and every other miniscule detail Cassius desired. It was in his nature to be particular and to chart every move. It was this dedication mixed with a certain amount of networking that garnered him the position of commander on this campaign. Should he return positively to Rome, his power in the Senate would only grow. Such was the politics of hungry men.

By night, Maximus was gathered in Hadrien's tent with Aulus, Lepidus, and Casca, waiting as a camp follower warmed leftovers from the soldiers' dinner on the fire outside and coating his empty stomach with a full glass of wine in the interim.

"'Where are you going so late?'" Lepidus imitated his wife's nasally voice, and Maximus hid his grin behind his cup. "Out," he answered in a stern yet dismissive tone and smiled candidly at his friends. "Aquila, the drunk bastard, is howling in the streets for me. 'Quiet, you fool,' I yell from my door, but he would not listen. 'We must hurry,' he says –mind you carrying about a chalice from dinner with wine through the streets." Casca, who knew Aquila well, erupted into laughter at the visual. Lepidus nodded encouragingly and continued painting the preposterous story for them, "'Another moment, and you'll draw the guards,' I say to him. 'Another moment, and we will lose our chance,' he tells me. We cloak ourselves, and I follow him through the streets and to the space where these beasts are kept for the night. His servants are waiting with his chariot prepared. The horse is removed from its harness, and I realize his intentions. 'Aquila, you drunk ass, what are you doing?' I ask. He ignores me and motions for his servants. 'Restrain the beast!' he commands. The lion is awake and pacing in its cage. Its eyes are hungry. Aquila's servants will not approach too closely. He begins prodding them with his chalice, sloshing wine everywhere.

"'Aquila,' I say, 'you'll kill us all!' When his servants won't open the cage, Aquila thrusts past them and begins smashing the lock. The lion is reaching through the cage and growling, but somehow the drunk fool is not injured!" The camp follower swept around Lepidus to distribute the food. Maximus was too engaged in Lepidus' story to concern himself with a meal. The alcohol was taking effect.

"What did he do?" he asked when Lepidus paused in his story to chew on his dinner.

His large, brown eyes turned to the young general, and he swallowed and casually finished, "Why he attached the lion to his chariot and rode through the streets."

All at once, the men howled with laughter.

"Aquila," Casca said through his chortles with tears falling down his cheeks. "That bastard has more lives than any man I've met!"

"You may not know the man, Maximus," Lepidus said, "but be assured he is far worse than any can prepare you for. Once we are in Rome, I will introduce you." Then, the thought occurred to him, and he clarified, "You will return to Rome with us, won't you?"

Maximus chewed his meal thoughtfully, buying time to consider the question. He missed his home in the west. He missed the farm his father had left him, but when he would see it next, he could not fathom. At length, he agreed, "Yes. For a time –before I journey home."

Hadrien clapped Maximus on the shoulder, nearly causing the general to choke on his food, and laughed heartily. "Good man. You will have need for allies in Rome, and these," he gestured grandly to the men gathered inside the tent, "are the finest friends I have."

Aulus made a show of bowing at such a compliment and inadvertently spilled his wine into the sand. He stared at the stain momentarily and extended his empty cup without hesitation for more. The men laughed.

Maximus left the tent hours later and nodded jovially to the guards he passed. Their tired eyes surveyed his drunken steps with jealousy and amusement, but none spoke. It was just as well; he had no desire to linger about. He had yet to make the list of arrangements for the guards who would watch the camp the following night, and though he cursed himself for his distractions, it could not hamper his pleasant mood. At any moment, he could recall Lepidus' story and chuckle to himself, and he slipped inside his tent where the fire had not been stoked. His eyes struggled to penetrate the darkness and make out the lines of his sparse tent. Gradually they adjusted, and his fingers began unlatching the leather edges of his armor, removing each piece by piece. He didn't bother to stow them properly. In a few hours, they would be shielding him once more. His responsibilities could be addressed in the morning before Cassius called upon him. The commander would be occupied with various tasks, and Maximus would have time to finish his business, or so his drunken mind assured him.

He slipped his tunic from his shoulders and felt the cold, night air sweep around his body. It nipped at his naked skin, but the alcohol warmed his blood and made him oblivious to the chill. The wine also made him tired as his mirth gave way to weariness, and he found his way to his cot and slid in beside her sleeping figure. He carefully coaxed his arm beneath her head and snaked the other around her waist, and she groaned low in her throat as he roused her. Instinctively, his lips brushed her neck, soothing away the disruption he had caused and waiting for her to settle in his arms and sleep once more. His mouth had the opposite effect, turning her to stone at his side. Drunkenly, he persevered and trailed up the length of her slender neck to follow her hairline behind her ear.

"Go to sleep," he murmured drowsily, but no command could be more impossible for her to follow at that moment. Her eyes were wide, alarmed, staring straight into the edge of the tent in front of her. Her heart was running a marathon in her chest, and she wondered how he did not feel it through her back. The limitations of her body felt so weak in comparison to its powerful thundering. He yawned and laid his head on her hair spread across the pillow. She waited expectantly, but his arms barely twitched around her, a subtle sign that sleep had overcome him. In her mind, she pictured her head lolling back upon the pillow to grant him her profile. It would lead the way as her body twisted to face him. She could kiss his strong neck and repay him the sleeplessness he had given her, but she closed her eyes instead.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Can you ride?" he asked as he finished tying off the bundles to his saddle and addressed her presence waiting expectantly at his side. Her gaze returned to him after she had assessed the throngs of soldiers around them. The camp was disassembled. Only the forgotten fires and footprints marked where they had once been. She would never see this site again, and the thought filled her with terror for it mirrored a much more paramount shift: She would never see her home again.

Her hands were shaking, but she feigned an undaunted tone as she answered, "I have no choice."

He nodded, mounted the steed, and adjusted the packs to be sure he could ride comfortably. Then, he offered a hand to help her, and when she met his gaze, he was startled by the alarm lining her dark orbs. By effect, it softened the severity of her features and gave her a more appropriate air for her age. His hand relaxed between them, and she reluctantly placed her small palm inside his. His fingers curled around her; and she gripped his hand tightly as her foot found the stirrup, and she swung her injured leg across the steed. The horse jostled momentarily as they arranged themselves, and Arwa wrapped her arms around his chest to keep her balance. Her injury made it too painful to grip with her legs.

Once settled, his heels firmly prodded the horse, and they found their place in line at the front of his cavalry. She glanced over her shoulder to the scene they left behind. How would Razin find her? Would she ever come home? With a nervous and resigned sigh, she twisted to face the march.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hello my lovelies! I hope everyone is having a happy Sunday and enjoying the changing weather. The story Lepidus tells is actually inspired by an account I read of Mark Antony, and I thought it was too hilarious not to adopt and work into the story. Hopefully everyone laughed a little. Obviously in the next chapter they will be in Resafa, and that's where things get fun!

Thank you to Syrena Swift for the amazing review as always! You're were the only one to review, so you get your own paragraph all to yourself :D I still can't get over the hilarious animal videos. I found myself rewatching them again and again and dying each time... Ugh. You kill me -in a good way :) Sexual beast hahahaha I think you just made Maximus feel all manly and hot :P He and Arwa do kinda have that Achilles/Briseis thing going on, but their dynamic will shift a bit with the new setting. Like I said, pretty excited for Resafa! Hopefully you think Maximus is less douchey after this chapter. Yes, he's being an ass to her, but at the same time he's actually being quite nice too. He's a complicated man. Maximus did not kill Razin so ghetto Syrena can put her earrings back on haha Now, whether he was captured by the tribes and killed... Hmmm you'll have to wait and see :) OMG I had no idea what this rifftrax thing was, and I like died again. Twilight in a box. So perfect. I was finding rifftrax for everything after that. I think I wasted like at least 30 minutes just going from link to link haha You're amazing, wifey. Thank you for the review, and I hope you liked this chapter xoxo


	6. Within The Walls

Chapter 6  
>"Within The Walls"<p>

**Resafa Phrourion  
><strong>**Limes Arabicus, Arabia Petraea**

Her tongue was dry and heavy, and she yearned for their next break so that she could quench her thirst and stretch her taut muscles. Her empty stomach had ceased grumbling hours ago. Their supplies were almost emptied. Sweat and sand laced her silhouette like a second skin, and she prayed this fortress would have clean water for she had never been so dirty in her life. Her face was a deep bronze from the journey in the sun, though after the first day, she had torn part of the outer layer of her dress and fashioned it into a makeshift head wrap. Ahead of her, Maximus alternated wearing his helmet and holding it before him, and each time it was removed, she cringed to see his dark curls blackened and matted with sweat. Similarly, his strong neck and muscular arms glistened brightly in the sun. The desert heat was violent and perilous, and the Romans were not desert people. Their heavy armor betrayed them and made a loud clutter when they fell from exhaustion –more than one. A horse had succumbed as well, and in response, the caravan was forced to stop more often for breaks and to ultimately slow its pace to be sure there were no causalities. Thus, they arrived late to the fort in Resafa while the sky was golden with the sun falling in the distance. Arwa was mostly blind to the system of forts and watchtowers Trajan had built nearly half a century earlier due to Maximus' stature. At times, she attempted to peer over his broad shoulder like a child straining to catch a glimpse of a surprise.

The closer they drew, not even Maximus' build could hide the grand fort from sight. Her mahogany eyes widened to take in the structure for she had never seen so grand a feat of man. The extent of her architectural knowledge were the tents her tribes constructed swiftly and disassembled in the blink of eye, but this… Her lips parted as her head craned back to see it all. The proud turrets struck up toward the sky on either side of the gate, and the wooden doors yawned as wide as they could to accept their brethren. The stone appeared golden in the afternoon light and was stacked methodically up to where the walls featured a geometric edge. There she saw sentries march between its gaps and disappear from sight a moment later. Surrounding the walls, they had carried limbs from distant lands, whittled the tips to spikes, and buried them at an angle around the perimeter to spear any who would try to alight the façade. The fort was built for one purpose, war, and yet it was beautiful to Arwa's eyes.

They followed the main road beneath the arch and into the fortress where the buzzing of numerous activities caught her ears. Some soldiers paused in their work to watch the caravan entering, but the interior had a preoccupied, purposeful energy that they could not disrupt. Where she had anticipated crude features, again, she had underestimated them. Not tents, but stone and wood buildings paved the road, whose purpose she could not comprehend. Her neck ached with the effort to turn her head quickly enough to catch it all, but soon they stopped. She bent around Maximus to see ahead, and there was a construction impeding their path. Another archway for them to pass under, and a turret crowned the top as if to oversee the entire fort. At its peak, flags crackled loudly, a golden lion's silhouette embroidered onto a rich burgundy fabric, and it roared through the ripples in the strong breeze. Foreign characters corralled the creature: _LEG·XIII GEMINA_.

She could not fathom what it meant, and she had the disorienting sensation of crossing the border into a completely alien land –the language, the culture, the smells of food, the architecture, the features of the men… Her head spun with the attempt to process it all. Oblivious to her anxiety, Maximus guided the steed left around a circular enclosure. At its center a Roman in a tunic held a rope while a horse galloped around the edge. As it noticed the company of cavalry passing by so close, the horse became agitated, bucking and neighing wildly, and the Roman struggled to regain control. Arwa was entranced, but Maximus hardly seemed to notice. Behind the enclosure were two rows of stables, and a native slave rushed from the cool embrace of the shadows to take the reigns from Maximus and offer his hand to Arwa. Seeing the man whose skin was the same caramel shade of her own and whose characteristics were that of her people, Arwa straightened excitedly and wished to call to him in her native tongue. But she did no such thing. Rather she placed her palm in his and allowed him to ease her from the horse, careful of how her stiff muscles tugged at her stitches. When she searched for his gaze, longing for one brief exchange of solidarity, his brown eyes were focused on the ground.

The dirt was disrupted when Maximus dismounted with a loud thud. He winced slightly as his body adjusted to the new position, and he shifted from foot to foot and drew his shoulder blades together until there was a loud crack. The muscles of his back relaxed, and he exhaled in relief and began unlacing his packs from the saddle and shouldering each in turn.

In the square which they had deviated from, there was talk like a speech, in Latin she presumed, but she could not make out the words. It had been so long since her mother taught her the foreign language, and their terms were too specific for her to grasp. She strained to see the man who commanded such a loud voice, and when her curiosity could not be satisfied, she asked, "Who is that?"

Maximus glanced toward the sound with a bored look and answered, "Faustus."

"Is he your king?" she pressed, for such a tone spoke of great authority.

"I have no king."

"You know what I mean," she snapped irritably.

The edges of his mouth drew into a sidelong smirk as he chuckled under his breath, amused by her impatience. "No, he is proconsul and praetor of this fort."

Unfamiliar with the terms, his answer gave her little more than she knew riding into the fort, so she continued, "What is he saying?"

"He is welcoming our return."

With that, Maximus patted his steed's neck in a brief show of affection as if thanking the horse for carrying them so far, but before she could comment on it, he turned and walked back toward the main road. Arwa winced as she tried to mask her stiff limp and keep up with the Roman's long strides. Perhaps he would reveal more in time and help her unravel the secrets of this place.

The lines of soldiers had already passed beneath the second arch, and it seemed Maximus' cavalry were the last to follow, distracted with stabling their horses. This building with the strange flags straddled the road, opening in the center and closing on the other end. She thought that so strange to place a building over a walkway, but she supposed the builders had run out of room or maybe wished to show off their skills –like the high walls and turrets were not grand enough. At the other side, another area of camp opened to them. They intersected a road which led in both directions to two large gates along the walls, each punctuated by double turrets. Here, the air was more relaxed, and the stone and wooden buildings gave way to white, canvas tents, large enough to house numerous men. They turned along this second road where the caravan broke into various companies arranged by their purpose and then by rank. The foot soldiers were loitering around the barracks lining the back wall, while cavalry, scouts, and vexillarii had their own separate tents. Finally, there were larger, more grandiose tents situated along the road, and Maximus led them to the farthest to the left, nestled beside the wall, as though it were a path he had travelled often. It became apparent to her only then that the Romans must have camped here before traversing into the desert.

He pushed aside the flaps, and she followed after him, unconsciously relaxing at the cool shade of the interior. It was much larger than his tent in the desert with space to house discussions and plans, seats surrounding a pit for a fire, and large table with four chairs at another end. Maximus deposited his burden unceremoniously beside the entry and shifted through a canvas curtain dividing the large tent into two spaces. Arwa trailed after him curiously and peered into the second room, clearly reserved for his personal affairs with a bed –not the narrow cot from the desert– a few rugs piled on the floor, barren racks for his armor and weapons, and washstand where Maximus was splashing fresh water onto his face. Dissatisfied with this approach, the Roman bent his burly frame over the bowl, took the pitcher, and poured the water over his head. Dirt, sand, and sweat tainted the water and drained from his face into the small bowl. When the pitcher was empty, he set it aside and shook his head like an animal, throwing beads of water in every direction. Arwa bit her lip to restrain a smile, but Maximus seemed to have forgotten about her. He often behaved that way even when she was seated at his side: He would carry about his business as if she were invisible to him –as if he cared so little for her company or thought so little of her mind to not wish to speak with her or acknowledge her. She swallowed bitterly, and he removed his chest plate, tore his fenders from his wrists, and began undressing.

The entry to the tent shifted, and Arwa spun on her heel, releasing the fabric behind her, and faced the servant with guilty eyes. The old woman with her hunched back had the look of simultaneous brittleness and sagging skin. She carried a variety of items in her arms, and her bottom lip protruded slightly, face carved with deep wrinkles in a permanent sour expression, and scowled. One eyelid hung lower than the other, and her wide eye turned distrustfully to Arwa as she barked, "What are you doing here? These are the officer's quarters! You are not allowed in here!"

Even if the biting words were a reprimand, the dialect so similar to her native tongue was music to Arwa's ears. Her stiff posture melted, and she almost wished to rush the old woman and take her into her arms. Only after her brief elation subsided did Arwa realize she was mistaken for a common servant. There was no better comment on her appearance. She blanched and searched for any combination of words to correct this woman, but the servant gave her no time.

Her dark eye swiveled where she could hear Maximus moving about in the next tent, and she hissed, "Quickly! Go before he finds you."

"I am al-'Amira al-'Anbat Arwa bint Khalid," she answered in a rushed breath.

The woman surveyed her suspiciously and accused, "The Nabataean Kingdom fell before even I was born."

"I am descendant of Aretas III," Arwa assured her, and the attack on her title caused the young woman to stand proudly and gather her regal air despite how she might appear. It was her mother, Asma, who could trace her lineage back to the time of royalty. When the kingdom fell to Rome, her family adopted the lifestyle of wealthy merchants and politicians. She was at once descendant of ancient royalty and heir to her father's tribe.

She would have made a powerful leader by her pedigree alone, and yet, the servant understood, "You are his."

Arwa could not consent to this new designation and simply explained, "I was captured."

The woman barely nodded and pursed her wrinkled lips in thought, her eye perusing Arwa's disheveled appearance. "You need a new dress."

"Yes." Her features lit hopefully at the prospect.

"I can bring you one from the market."

At that moment, the fabric was pushed aside, and Maximus emerged with a slender piece of linen neglectfully tied about him and sinking low on his hips. Arwa kept her gaze level with his blue eyes and newly shaven face rather than following the dark trail of hair past his navel… She turned to face the servant once more, and the old woman's eye was too omniscient with silent understanding. Arwa avoided a flush from her racing heart but couldn't bring herself to shyly drop her gaze and reveal some weakness.

"Why are you here?" he asked the servant as he circled toward his forgotten bags at the entryway. The servant shuffled toward the table and deposited a fresh pitcher of water, a vessel of wine, platter with fresh bread, and cups.

Rather than allowing the woman to speak, Arwa intercepted diplomatically, "She was offering her assistance."

The general appeared to have no time for her battle of wills and flatly said, "She is not your servant." He found the rolled pieces of parchment he desired and carried them toward the wooden table.

The servant was watching their exchange as a silent bystander, and Arwa's pride nipped at her heels, spurred by his dismissive behavior. "I need a new dress," she pressed stubbornly.

Maximus' brow lifted in faux intrigue, and he wet his thumb to grip the edge of the parchment and unroll the final piece. His blue eyes strayed to assess her appearance, but they showed no flicker of interest or care. By contrast, her hands were nearly shaking with frustration. How could he expect her to walk about in _this_? Her nostrils flared, and she caught his gaze and repeated slowly and deliberately, "I need a new dress."

"And how will you pay for this?" he questioned but more significantly reminded her that she was dependent upon him.

Without thinking, Arwa tore one of the gold necklaces from her chest and held it out toward him. He glanced at her trembling fist as if assessing a plot of land and once more at her eyes, and then he turned and walked into his private quarters. She felt as if her blood were boiling, her face was swept up in the heat, at any moment it might overflow from her lips as a string of curses about his name and his people and his manners. She shifted to follow after him and nearly collided into his bare chest when he slipped through the opening once more. Ignoring her furious features, he handed the servant a few coins and commanded, "Find whatever is cheapest."

The matter settled, he returned to his parchment, but somehow he had still robbed Arwa of victory. She seethed and instructed the woman in their tongue, "_Not_ a Roman dress."

The woman bowed slightly and left. Maximus poured himself a cup even as Arwa drilled holes into his naked back. He sipped casually from the edge, and the entry rustled once more with movement. Arwa spun to face what she expected to be the servant, but instead a Roman soldier stepped inside.

"General Meridius," he began, and Maximus turned to face the man. "There will be a dinner held in the Proconsul's quarters to celebrate your victory and discuss further plans."

"He can expect my company," he agreed and waved off the man.

The soldier wet his lips uncertainly, and his gaze flickered toward Arwa who was startled by this shift. "He also-" Maximus glanced at him, and the soldier finished, "He also requests that the woman be there."

So easily did Maximus' calm demeanor dissolve into a deep scowl. "Why?"

"I do not know," he answered earnestly, and both men turned at once toward Arwa. She looked at them vacantly, surprised and wary of this news, but then a satisfied smile laced her lips as she realized she was more powerful than she thought.

"I will bring her," Maximus consented, and the soldier lowered his head respectfully and left.

The general still stared at Arwa, and her eyes flashed impishly. "It seems a new dress will be useful."

If it were possible, Maximus' frown intensified, but he turned from her and commanded, "Bathe. I can't bring you looking like this."

Her eyes narrowed, but she accepted the challenge with a deceivingly pleasant, "As you wish," which meant something far less charming. She took the fresh pitcher and slipped into the private area where his clothes had been thrown across the bed. The ground was still drying from him, and she carefully poured out of the rest of the dirty water from the bowl with a disgusted frown. A damp linen rag was crumpled upon the stand, and she wrung that out as well, not sparing a reluctant sniff to be sure it was clean enough to use herself. In the future, she decided, she would bathe before him and avoid this entire dilemma. With a fresh linen towel prepared to dry her and her pitcher waiting, she encountered the most difficult part –undressing. While he spared no thought to removing his tunic around her or sleeping naked at her side, she was far more modest, or far less brave. She turned and stared at the line in the fabric, which could so easily shift the slightest to reveal her, and she waited as if she might catch his blue eye stealing a glance. He cleared his throat, and she stiffened fearfully. Nothing.

She exhaled her unease, though unable to turn away from the partition, and slipped her dress off her shoulders, coaxing it down the curves of her body until it fell soundlessly to the floor. Now naked and exposed, she twisted away from the partition to hide herself and glanced over her shoulder suspiciously. Realizing her foolishness, she cursed under her breath and threw her dress and jewelry beside his clothing where it made such an odd contrast to his armor. Finally, she took the pitcher, tilted back her head with closed eyes, and poured a stream down her forehead and body. The water was lukewarm to her relief, unlike her bath in the Roman camp. Still, chills crept across her skin, making her acutely aware of her naked body, and she filled the bowl with the remaining water. The thin linen square was ready, but where was the bath oil? She searched the wash table's surface for any sign of a bottle or tiny vessel. What animals were these men to not bathe properly?

At length, she discovered a tiny bottle, small enough to fit in her hand and already half-empty. She didn't hesitate to throw a glare over her shoulder but as quickly remembered he could walk into the space at any moment. Thus, she settled for grumbling beneath her breath as she spilled some of the oil into her palm. She would need the rest for detangling her hair. She massaged the oil into her shoulders and arms, around her breasts, down her abdomen, and what little was left into her legs. Her bronze skin felt smoother in places while others had not enough of the balm, but she was not a witch to summon more at a blink of her eye. She wet the linen rag and began scrubbing it across her body, rubbing until the blood bloomed beneath her skin, and only then did she trust the dirt was cleaned away. The white linen was now tainted brown to her disgust, and she washed it out thoroughly in the bowl to be sure he would not realize how dirty she was. It was foolish of her to reserve any sense of womanly mystery with this man, and yet she felt compelled to. She poured the last bit of water through her hair and across her body until her skin tingled with cleanliness.

She felt renewed, energized, and decidedly content for the time being. She dried off her skin as best she could with the linen cloth and wrapped it around her, adjusting it endlessly to cover all that she needed. It felt too short. Her hips were barely covered, and it circled low around her chest. There was nothing that could be done, and she worked the remainder of the oil through her dark locks, sat on a stool, and began untangling the knots with her fingers for lack of a brush. Each movement tugged at her scalp with sharp pains, and she hissed under her breath from time to time. Her stubbornness, however, perservered as always.

Without announcing himself, Maximus entered the room brandishing a bundle in his palm. Arwa quickly crossed her legs and drew her hair across her torso to shield the semi-transparent nature of the cloth, and her gaze was modestly directed down, though annoyed with how he walked about carelessly as if there was no sense of privacy between them. She was revealed to him in more ways than one, and he openly admired her damp, bronze skin, skinny arms and long legs shyly tucked in toward herself, and for once her mahogany eyes did not rise to provoke him.

His thumb and forefinger took her chin, guiding her head back where he could examine her face. She stiffened, and her eyes searched his expression for his reasoning. He considered her youthful complexion, a richer shade of caramel now from the sun, which made her eyes seem warmer and brighter by contrast. He hardly noticed the cut scabbing above her lip or the yellow bruises fading into her skin.

"Does this please you?" she asked only because the silence was too dense for her to bear. He had never looked at her in such a way, and it made her tense and nervous.

He did not answer, but he released her chin and offered the package in his hand. "Your dress, I imagine."

Pleasure illuminated her features, but she feigned an unconcerned air as she stole it from his hands in one swift sweep. He scratched his nose to hide his smile and watched her untangle the string holding it in place. The white gossamer fabric was revealed, and she impulsively placed it to her nose and inhaled deeply. As she suspected, the fabric was laced with the spicy notes of incense, a gentle reminder of her culture. She took the dress by the shoulders and lifted it to be on eye level where she could see its simple construction. It was a poor man's imitation of the gowns once at her disposal, but she was pleased if only because it was not a Roman tunic.

‡ ‡ ‡

When they arrived at the dinner in Faustus' quarters, Arwa's air shifted like her foot crossing the threshold after Maximus into the room. Her stature was lofty, her eyes intensely aware, and a smile was poised in the line of her lips and at the ready to be shared with these powerful men. The room was large with a long, rectangular table and arranged chairs, candles were lit across the space, the men in relaxed togas with bold embroidered edges to symbolize their status, and their arrival seemed one of the last this evening.

"General Meridius!" A man with thinning brown hair called out in a booming tone. His voice rushed the space like a sudden assault on Arwa's ears, and his toga was the more heavily ornamented of all those gathered.

She easily interlocked the pieces, even before Maximus rejoined, "Proconsul."

"It is good to see you well, young Meridius," he said and clapped Maximus firmly on the shoulder. It seemed the wine was already flowing within the quarters. "We would be remiss without your bravery, though it is sometimes masked by foolishness."

"I am guilty of pride, as is any man," he conceded with a candid smile.

"Yes, but Cassius has told me of your fortune escaping the barbarian bastards. I expected the commander to return with your head, and yet here you stand with it planted between your shoulders." Faustus grinned, and his glassy eyes swiveled toward Arwa. "And you brought the woman…"

Maximus reluctantly acknowledged Arwa with a dismissive, "As you requested." Her chin dipped slightly, making her eyes glitter from beneath her lashes where they sustained the Roman's gaze, and a kitten smile hiked up her lips. Slowly, she bowed her head.

Faustus' stance shifted to a more gathered stature, and he unconsciously smoothed his hair across the shiny skin crowning his head. His gaze was fixed on Arwa, abruptly entranced and curious by one simple gesture. "By Cassius' account, I expected a more… _brutish_ demeanor."

Before leaving, Maximus had iterated numerous times about the qualities she was to assume –submissive, agreeable, and above all else, silent. She didn't even spare the general a glance as she returned, "I've not had the fortune of being in such powerful company." Her voice was nearly a purr of smoke, trickling down the necks of all the men now straining to see her, and Maximus exhaled hotly at her side. It would bring him more trouble to chastise her with all attentions now centered on the desert woman, and so he bit his tongue.

"You speak Greek?" Faustus reveled with genuine shock, and he snapped at the commander, "Cassius! You did not say she spoke Greek!" The other man blanched, but Faustus did not give him a chance to rectify the situation. Rather, he gestured grandly toward his table and invited them both to "Sit, sit. We have much to discuss."

Arwa was given the seat at Maximus' left, but the more salient realization was: She was the only woman. Faustus clapped impatiently, and servants swept into the room, causing Arwa a wave of vehement disgust. She swallowed down the bitter taste at the scantily clad women of her ethnicity. The gowns cut low upon their breasts where Faustus gazed hungrily as they bent to fill his cup with wine. They met Arwa's gaze with a flicker of mutual standing, and she wished to curse them for looking upon her so poorly. She was not a common whore! But to all those gathered, she was his, and that title was the only one she would carry through the rest of her life. She attempted to push aside these heavy thoughts and engage herself in the conversation which had started while she was lost in her head.

"It seems we underestimated the tenacity of these men," the proconsul reflected. "When you were sent into their lands, I assured Emperor Verus this matter would handled promptly and painlessly, and yet I have been reduced to appealing to his kinder natures and funding the continuity of our campaign. I've come to wonder, naturally, if I have deceived you in any way to think me stupid or blind. How have _we_ –Romans- been bested by savages?" His mirth yielded too swiftly to his fury like a burst of fire, so driven by his overpowering tone that Arwa felt singed from her proximity.

"We underestimated their numbers," Cassius contributed. "At every turn, their forces multiply. We were unprepared."

"And what preparation do you need? Your orders are simple, Cassius. Find the tribesmen and be rid of them whatever their numbers! Wipe out their lands… They have no use for Rome."

Arwa's hands unconsciously gripped the sides of her chair, digging into the wood until it drove splinters in her palm, but above the table, her position seemed calm and at ease. Faustus turned to Maximus and pointed, "You, Meridius. You saw their camps. How many men would you say they command?"

"Greater than one hundred, but no more than two," he decided.

"And did you recover any intelligence? Overhear anything important perhaps?"

"Not directly. They asked where we kept our supplies which suggests their resources are dwindling."

"A fine observation," the proconsul said, voice ripe with sarcasm. "They live in a desert! Of course they require supplies! We would not be in this forsaken land were they self-sufficient and not raiding our territories and trade routes!" The man sat back in seat, seething with abrupt anguish and humiliation, and his dark eyes turned to Arwa. "What have you to tell me, girl?"

"What can she know?" one man interrupted. "She is a woman."

His attention snapped toward the general, and he growled, "You will hold your tongue so long as you enjoy keeping it." When his eyes slid back to Arwa, she was prepared.

"We are not Romans," she spoke, amidst disgruntled looks, "so do not assume we behave as such. I've never seen men so preoccupied with strategies and plans and maps… My people are not soldiers. We are warriors. We live in lands men do not dare travel, we sustain ourselves through other's riches, and we fight whoever dares to face us. We do not plan. We survive."

"Like weeds," he countered and traced the naked spine of the servant adding a plate of charred meat to the table. All at once he grabbed her hair and wrenched back her neck. "Weeds need to be plucked, but in their place, two more sprout!" He released her as quickly as he had struck, and she stumbled unsteadily away from the table. Silent eyes observed her disgrace. "I've never encountered a group of people so eager for death and yet so resilient."

It was a compliment Arwa would have reveled in receiving, but she was too repulsed by his behavior. None stood in opposition of his actions or words. Who held him accountable?

"Eat," Faustus barked gruffly and motioned toward the table where the men barely dared to breathe. He took his cup and drained its entirety in one attempt. It doused his anger for the moment, and he belched and tore off a leg from the roast chicken. He waved the greasy meat through the air like a scepter and deemed, "It is a celebration."

The mood was anything but merry. The wine overflowed, and as with all men, they abandoned the heavy tone for rounds of laughter and inappropriate jests made at each other's expense.

"I forgive my wife's waning beauty when I am lost between another's thighs," one man boasted, his face red with drunkenness and eyes lolling about.

"I could not forget so easily!" another challenged across the table. "I trust you married for her talents and not her beauty!"

Rather than offense, he laughed loudly. "War has saved my marriage. I may enjoy my mistresses while she squanders my riches."

"Wiser men would be jealous."

"Not poor Tullius."

Tullius shrugged off the amused looks and defended, "I am fortunate to love my wife!"

"Were she mine, I would savor her as well." The table erupted into laughter, all but Tullius, and the man continued, "You are too young to understand, Tullius. No Roman can abate his hunger. May you survive more years at war, and you will find yourself indulging often and freely in the exotic fruit." He extended his cup and pointed toward the general. "Maximus knows of what I speak."

He grinned guiltily to Arwa's chagrin and licked the seasoning from his thumb with a flicker of his blue eyes her direction. She hoped her insult translated from her gaze, but he appeared unaffected.

"And she must appreciate his company to betray her people and save his life," Faustus interjected with Arwa in his sights. "Do you enjoy Roman men?" he asked and greedily traced his tongue across his greasy mouth.

Her stomach turned, but her lips slid into a seductive smile. Maximus' tense stance held a warning as he intervened, "I can assure you she does."

Her gaze slid to the general, that smile still lingering in her lips, and she commented innocently, "I shall answer for myself." The air he breathed spoke of his suspicion, but the wine made him arrogant. He nodded grandly toward the table for her to continue. Her mahogany eyes found Faustus' sweating features, and she leaned his direction, lowering her voice so that all men strained to listen, "Roman men," she paused, and her smile flickered indulgently, "in my experience, are rough and brazen. They seek to conquer and to consume –like soldiers, while women yearn to be seduced."

"More experienced men might better satisfy you," he suggested, too intoxicated for subtlety.

"I assumed most young men too eager and selfish," she agreed and felt Maximus turn to stone with wrath at her side. When she met the blue gaze, it was pure fire, but she was not finished, "And yet... I'm fast realizing my mistake."

Faustus' feature fell in disappointment, but Arwa was preoccupied savoring the way his stern blue eyes melted to disbelief with a dash of pride. Then she felt his fingers barely trace the inside of her wrist, stretching out a slow sweep to the center of her palm. The sensation somehow traveled down her spine with a brief quiver to settle heavily in her lap, and she looked away, breaking from his hand which reached through her and set fire to her blood.

When they departed hours later into the thick chill of night, she felt Faustus' gaze drag along her skin and glanced over her shoulder briefly to sustain his look. She was treading through deep water. Hadrien walked with the pair back toward their encampments, and he leaned heavily against Maximus to support his inebriated swagger. Arwa diverted toward their tent while Maximus helped his friend to bed, and she was pleased to see the fire stoked and candles littered about the space. The partition was separated at the center and tied at either edge to show the grand size of the space. She wandered into the personal area and slipped off her shoes, all the while playing the night through her mind's eye again and again. She mouthed every word she had spoken and pictured their enraptured faces. Next time she would be more diplomatic, but their conversation had left her little room for any other manner of response than she gave.

Maximus entered the tent then, and she looked up expectantly, waiting for the lashing she knew would come. As she thought, he asked, "Why did you speak?" He untied the binds holding back the partition and the material swung once more into place to divide the rooms. It had the effect of trapping her.

"I behaved as you wished," she suggested, still caught up in her charisma. "I was submissive and agreeable, but silent I can never be."

"What is your game?"

"I'm playing no tricks," she assured him.

Undaunted, he approached her and pressed, "Why did you lie?"

Her brow creased uneasily. She thought her words had pleased him. Why else would he touch her so? Her charm was not easily switched off, the alluring act she had adopted for the night, but she could not answer his barren gaze in her guise. She swallowed, and her features softened. "The way he speaks to you," she murmured. "I would slit his throat."

He drew closer, and she frowned deeply, watching his movements to understand their purpose. When he reached toward her, she tried to step away and avoid his attack, but his arm caught her waist, his hand sinking over her backside. Her chest crushed into his robes and yielded to the solid muscle behind them. The heat of his mouth consumed her lips, and she tasted the sweet wine on his skin. His fingers embedded in her flesh, and her back unconsciously bent under the burden of his kiss. Her arms hung limp at her sides; her body submitted to his siege. He massaged her lips like a lover, molding over her again and again, until they were numb with pleasure, and the blood rushed to feed them, making them swollen and red. She was submerged in him, breathless and dizzy and disoriented. Her hands felt strong as they buried into his tight curls and grasped onto his head to draw him even closer, but her knees were quaking like the thunder of want tearing through her.

He straightened, leaving her drugged and heavy in his arms, and surveyed his work. She stared lost at him as confused and adrift as if this were a dream, and finally he warned, "Do not speak where you have no experience." He released her and turned to remove his robes. She did not remove her gown but slipped beneath the sheet of the bed, careful to keep her face from his sight and hide the dark flush blooming in her cheeks.


	7. The Blind Man's Gift

Chapter 7  
>"The Blind Man's Gift"<p>

Only her fourth day in the fort, and she was already bored of the silent tent and the infinite way time stilled inside its canvas walls. Outside, she could hear the ruckus of daily life: the clinking of metal, distant conversations, sound of men's laughter, and more. A whole world awaited exploration and understanding, but she was confined to this space indefinitely. The walls seemed to be closing each hour of each day, constricting the interior of the tent even after she drew open the partition to revel in the room's grandeur. It did little to appease the anxiety lining her skin like little fissures, erupting and shifting and colliding. She took the short, fat knife lying beside the platter of food refilled each day and tangled the hilt in her fingers. She watched it pivot in her grasp, slipping through her grip like slippery water, and the dull blade turned endlessly.

At length, she looked up from her idle entertainment and surveyed the space in a sweeping glance. Her eyes paused and turned back to the washstand situated opposite her position. The mahogany orbs narrowed in brief thought, and then, without warning, she threw the knife. It whistled through the air, sinking into the wood grain with a blunt impact, and she smiled at her aim, as sharp as it had been last she checked. Razin would be pleased that she was practicing still. _You must practice_, he would tell her when she younger and too absent-minded to care about training._ There is always something to be learned or improved._ Now, she tore the knife from the wood and ran her thumb across the rough cut in the grain as she wondered what Maximus would say. She doubted he was observant enough to notice and returned to her original position, flexing her elbow and aiming for another shot.

The entryway was disrupted as the servant's hunched figure stepped within, and Arwa exhaled her sudden statuesque at the prospect of Maximus slipping inside and finding her repeatedly stabbing his furniture. She threw it a final time, waiting for that pleasing sound, and took the pitcher of fresh water from the old woman's arms. Even relieved of this burden, her stature was stooped, and it seemed one day she might arrive with her face dragging across the ground.

"Have you no one to care for you?"

"No," her crass voice returned, like the crackling of old paper consumed by the fire. "My husband and son were killed when the Romans came."

"I'm sorry." Arwa set the pitcher on the table, and already the old servant had made a slow revolution atop her brittle legs and hobbled toward the threshold. Arwa looked ahead each day to the servant's arrival with fresh utensils and cloth and food, desperate for a final connection with her lands, like a woman forsaken in the fall and reaching for the rope. "I lost my family as well. The commander Cassius –he took my mother," she revealed in a sudden deluge, all the words running into the next. She drew her fingers along the edge of the table, uncertain how to garner the woman's attention and trust. "I do not know if she lives."

The servant paused and twisted her crippled shoulder to see Arwa's distraught eyes. "What is her name?"

"Asma… al-'Amira al-'Anbat Asma bint Aretas IV."

"A name as lofty as the air. A name for royalty."

"Given to a woman fit to rule a kingdom." She stepped toward the older woman as if pulled by the invisible lure of their conversation, and her voice shifted too readily, at once elated and depressed. "I've aspired my entire life to grasp her wisdom, but I fear I'll never understand all she taught me."

"You will with time," she soothed in the most gentle tone her scratchy voice could accomplish. Whether she recognized Arwa's isolation and misery or simply sought to be kind, she continued, "I still unravel the secrets of the lessons my mother and grandmother passed on to me."

Arwa's face flickered to life behind the leaden mask of her imprisonment, enlivened by the generational solidarity, and she smiled. "The gods gave you a son when you would have raised a brilliant daughter."

"She was," the woman acknowledged, and her lips pursed to still their trembling. "The Romans took her as a slave. I have not seen her for ten endless summers."

Arwa's shoulders sank heavily into her back, her whole body contracting and whittling away at this news as the breath sucked straight from her lungs. At length, she whispered, "I'm certain she thinks of you each day." Idly, she wandered toward the washstand, tore the knife from the wood, and found her position once more, all the while aware of the servant's wide eye surveying her every move.

"You intend to spend each day within this tent?"

Arwa's grip on the wooden hilt tightened, and she grimaced deeply as she explained through her teeth, "I am forbidden to leave."

While she took aim for her next throw, the servant proposed in a low tone, "How will he know?"

She paused, lingering in that stance, and only her head turned above her shoulders to consider the older woman. "What do you suggest?"

The wrinkled features contorted as a smile full of crooked teeth overtook her face. Barely minutes passed before they found their way into the canteen area of the Roman camps. Situated in the center of the barracks, the makeshift market allowed natives to sell their materials, food, and such to the Roman soldiers. With the troops returned and past their morning duties, many loitered about to survey the offerings. A slender piece of cloth was wrapped about Arwa's features, tucking away the majority of her hair, and she held the edge across her mouth and nose to be sure none could realize who she was. The old woman guarded her side, her wide eye swiveling distrustfully toward the soldiers who passed them. Against their ranks, the pair were lost amid a sea of Romans, their shorter figures and dresses setting them apart from those gathered. Still, Arwa's relief and excitement could not be hindered so easily. In her simple guise, she perused the goods, pausing from time to time to smell the spices, touch the fabrics, sample the food. Here, she found an oasis within the desert, the embers burning within the smoldering ashes of her heritage. She had never been more pleased to see the plain peasants' dirtied faces. They spoke the same dialect as the servant, and though Arwa could unravel their meaning, she strained to grasp the fresh terms and adopt them into her vocabulary. She was nothing if not adaptive. Unlike the Romans who carried their culture across borders and through foreign lands, she needed to adjust if she wished to prosper.

She paused near a vendor whose red fruit, shiny and plump, attracted her curiosity most. The peddler crouched near the basket, bent across a crooked cane, and the layers of soiled fabrics shrouded his figure, torn and dirty, like the piece tied about his eyes which signaled his impairment. His chin was tucked toward his chest, allowing the thick shadow of his cloth to fall across his face as a dense mask. A young boy idled at his side, bare-chested with his boney ribs protruding from his bronze skin. His black hair was mussed into a tangled mess and hanging well into his eyes.

"What are these?" she asked while drawing one into her palm and wrapping her fingers about its firm flesh. She admired how it glistened in the sunlight but looked past it to the silent man still leaning heavily atop his cane, expecting a response.

"Fruit from the west," the boy answered for his master, and her attention flickered to him with a smile drawing behind her veil.

"How have you come to handle these?"

"My father buys them from the merchants crossing the Via Nova."

The man had not strayed in the slightest, not even the brief, instinctive movements to suggest life behind the shadow, and she wondered, "Is he mute?"

"No, but blind." His stomach churned loudly, and he rubbed a hand across his gut, bowing his head to hide his embarrassment. Each breath forced his ribs to expand, and his skin sank in the gap between the bones to fit his skinny build. The material of pants was nearly indecipherable, so torn and dirty they were, and his bare feet were caked in filth. Her fingertips found the torn gold necklace she had offered Maximus days ago and ran her thumb along its broken links. She replaced the apple in lieu of the boy's blackened palm where she wrapped his slender fingers around the gold, a private exchange no curious Roman would catch.

"Eat, boy," she commanded gently, "and care for your father." His dark eyes widened to twice their size as he peeked at the gold against his soiled hand, and Arwa smiled, briefly recalling the look of her younger brother's face when she had presented him a jewel-crusted dagger on his birthday. That was her old life. She had no need for riches any longer. They had lost their allure before her eyes. What she envied more was this father and son for they were far wealthier than her for having the company of each other.

The red flesh gleamed in the light, and she turned to see his hand offering her one of the best fruit. Graciously, she accepted, and like a snake lashing out for the attack, his other hand landed atop hers and held her firmly in place. She jerked against his grip, chin snapping in alarm at this action, and discovered his features unimpeded by the cloth previously drawn across his eyes. There the black coals for eyes simmered a thousand unspoken words, and the Roman camp shattered around her, tumbling away into an oblivion where their loud calls, cramped space, and foreign glances couldn't touch her.

"Razin," she recognized and disregarded holding her veil to place her hand atop his and draw closer, wishing at once to kiss him and embrace him.

"Not here, _'umri_," he warned, though her body flexed unconsciously with the want to rush him, find him, bury herself in the safety of his arms. Her mahogany eyes wavered before his gaze, and he drew his thumb across her fingers in the only comfort he could offer beside the sound of his voice.

"I was so afraid… that you were dead."

"Who would protect you?" His unique reasoning, singular in purpose and thought, reassured her as if she were a babe again and he were stealing away her pain. Before her eyes, he was invincible once more, following her to the ends of the earth to see her safe.

"Where is the Roman?" he persisted, and her eyelashes fluttered, attempting to send away the tears poised along her lower lashes.

"Meeting with his comrades. They are planning something, Razin. They seek to murder us all –like rodents! They want for more than our lands and our people-"

"Peace," he soothed her jumbled words, but the agonizing knowledge of her people's fate boiled over until her hands were shaking with the tension not to scream it from her lungs. "There is time. Sa'id could not command the tribes… He is not so powerful as your father. They are separated and feuding amongst themselves. They are distracted from the Romans a while longer."

"What of Nasr?"

"Safe." Her tense expression faded with relief, but it was short-lived for Razin released her hands. He stood, maintaining his act as he wobbled unsteadily atop his cane and asked, "Where does he keep you?"

"In a tent along the road ahead, nearest the right wall."

He pulled the cloth across his eyes once more, and the boy gathered the fruit as if this were an unspoken signal. "I will find you when it is time, but now you must go."

"Take me," she begged in a sudden whisper, terrified at being alone once more. She would never leave his side if he would but carry her away from this… "I cannot remain here another second!"

"Have your forgotten your purpose?"

She faltered, like her uncertain features, torn between helping her tribe or staying the course. At times a ship must shift its sails, but this was not the moment. She wanted to be all that he had taught her, to make him proud, and yet her voice trembled as she answered, "No…"

"Be strong," he coaxed and then stumbled purposefully, falling forward, and she as swiftly dropped the fruit and caught him in her arms. Her face collided with his shoulder, her nose buried in his cloth, but when she inhaled, it was not the spicy, dense aroma she recalled. Fretting, her fingers searched through the layers of fabrics until they found the firm skin stretched across the muscles of his arm.

"Razin," she mumbled unconsciously, once more distracted from her reasoning and allured by the promise of shelter at his side.

The unyielding edges of a mysterious bundle were forced between their bodies, and she snapped from her mind, aware enough to wrap it in the ends of her veil.

"I will find you, _nuur il-'en_." There was no blood, and yet by the severity of his tone, she knew it was an oath. He hobbled away from the canteen and down the narrow market road. His cane drug in the dirt, he limped heavily, and the boy struggled to carry the weight of the basket beside him.

"Come," the servant coaxed from her side. "We have stayed too long."

The blood settled into her feet, burdensome as raw stone. His retreating figure was iron strapped to ankles, holding her numbly in place. Her eyes called for him, but he did not turn. Her chest ached so deeply she thought he had taken her heart with him, and fear swelled into the empty cavity, too persuasive and dark and endless. She feared she would never see him again. He was all she had.

The old woman took her arm and pulled forcefully, and Arwa barely had the consciousness to obey. She stumbled clumsily on the edge of her dress, and gravity took hold, yanking her into place once more. She searched the Romans grouped around them suspiciously, but none took notice of her. The veil was drawn across her face once more while she cradled the package protectively against her chest. With the servant at her side, they hurried toward Maximus' tent, praying the general had not returned in the interim.

By some grace of the gods, the tent was empty and silent, and Arwa unwound the veil from her head, freeing her hair to tumble across her shoulders and down her back, and tore open the leather to see the shiny, metal glistening seductively in the afternoon light. Her heart leapt, and she knew that she was made whole by such a gift. Her fingers found the cool metal hilt and drew it into the light. The blade arched in a seamless curve, the length greater than most daggers, and she knew its twin was as perfectly welded to match. She recognized its weight, its handle, its construction… These had been an inheritance from her father, passed down to her when she was barely able to stumble about, and she felt her father's strength and power captured by the metal. How had Razin found them? How had he stolen them from the camps? She couldn't fathom, nor could she care –too preoccupied admiring the blade. He had taught her to wield them. Swords could be too cumbersome for her build, oppress her speed and agility as the wound on her arm showed.

"He approaches!" the servant hissed from the doorway, and Arwa wrapped the blades in the leather once more, searching around the sparse contents of the tent for a proper place to hide them. "Hurry!"

Impulsively, Arwa rushed toward the bed, slipped the package between the bedding and frame, and sprung to her feet as Maximus brushed brusquely into the space. His agitated air rolled forth, turbulent as a sea at storm, and his blue eyes flickered from the servant arranging the cups to Arwa standing calmly beside the washstand. She drummed her nails idly on its top, trying to mask the racing of her heart in her chest, but he seemed in no mood to acknowledge her.

"Wine," he barked shortly and settled into one of the chairs at the table as the servant brought him a cup. He drank thickly, swallowing enough to make his throat burn, and he allowed the metal to fall onto the table with a loud clamor. Feeling her silent eyes, he straightened to meet them and asked, "Do I entertain you?"

Her fingers ceased drumming, and she found her way to the seat opposite him at the table. So close, she could see the irritation clouding his features and calmly returned, "For four days, I've had nothing to examine but the inside of this tent."

"Would you prefer I tie you while I am about my business?"

"Your proconsul," she murmured, disliking how the Roman word stumbled across her tongue, "he upsets you."

"It is none of your concern." He stood once more, pushing the chair back and nearly allowing it to tumble from his force. Seeing the servant still lingering, he waved his hand roughly. "Leave! I have no use for you."

Arwa tensed at hearing the old woman addressed so crassly, but she hobbled away as if unconcerned and accustomed to this behavior. Arwa stood from the table as well, slow and careful around him when he seemed capable of snapping at any moment. Considering the numerous rules she had broken this day, she knew well enough to walk softly and not draw suspicion. He shifted into the personal area and began removing his armor one piece at a time, roughly tearing the pieces away from his skin until only his tunic and sandals remained.

With an inexplicable, short exhale, he sat on the edge of the bed and said, "Faustus asks of you."

Her tongue curled, poised to answer but paused indefinitely as she searched his tone and his face. "You are jealous…"

He smirked humorlessly and countered, "Have I reason to be?" He bent to unlace his sandals, and Arwa ceased breathing, too aware of her poor job hiding away her gift: The sheet was hiked up, caught on the metal tip sliding out from beneath the mattress. Oblivious, Maximus continued, "You mistake his interest for fortune."

Her knees brushed his, and he sat up suspiciously to face her, though she could not explain how she came to stand before him. "You mistake mine for attraction," she returned, her voice smooth and even, despite the rush of blood swirling around her head. Her body acted on instinct, her heart pounding in her ears, and her fingers touched his arm, so light a gesture he barely felt it. They moved to his cheek next, searching for the proper way to feel him, and he waited with the patience of predator, all stiff limbs and burning eyes. Her head bent, his neck straightened, her nose barely grazed his, and it electrified her like a jolt down her spine. She felt too terrified to breathe but in too deep to turn away. Her lips found him in a brief sweep, like dipping her toe into the water to test its temperature, and his hot, moist breath slipped through his parted mouth and tumbled across her skin. His hands cupped her lower back, gentle and careful, and she felt herself sinking into him though she had long lost command of her body. Her knees buried into the padding of the mattress until she felt the unyielding wooden frame beneath, her skirt pooled at her thighs, and his fingers grappled with the fabric, drawing it up to her waist until she felt the callused tips trace her naked flesh. She fled from his touch, directly into his stiff chest where he captured her completely.

His lips consumed her, kissing away her will, and he sucked the strength from her bones. Her impotence sent a chill warning into her gut, and her hands took his face, holding him still, so that her mouth could enjoy him how she pleased, trying to regain her power. Her lips molded over him more firmly, and he used that leverage as if it had been his plan all along, parting her mouth with his and kissing her the more intensely until their brows crashed together. Her every thought was caught up in tasting his lips, admiring their yield, enjoying the heat of his mouth. When his fingers drug down the backs of her naked thighs, she jolted uncontrollably at the sensation. It drove the pulsing through her body, and she shuddered against him, lifting up where his hands couldn't reach her and send her toppling headlong over the edge. His teeth found her breast through her dress, and his palms cupped her shoulder blades, holding her in place where he savored her body. The material clung to her skin, moistened by his mouth, and when his teeth found the hardened flesh, her head fell between her shoulders, her lips parted with a sharp gasp. The room spun before her eyes, the breath wouldn't fit in her lungs, and she obliged too easily when he took her hips and pulled her down onto him. His tunic kept him from her, but he reached between them to tear the material out of the way. Her skin swarmed with lust, heated as the sun at noon, and she held stubbornly to him as he lifted her and angled his hips below.

His face turned from her, leaving her to trail impatient kisses along his jaw and up to his ear. She was too drunk with his kiss and his touch to recognize his rigid body, and without warning, he jerked to his feet, sending her stumbling off of him and back into the edge of the washstand. It dug into her lower back, the pain rushing to wake her from her lusty stupor, and she finally recognized his stone features carved out of fury so sharply that she understood. He tore the mattress from the bed, revealing the leather wrapped poorly about the two daggers, and her jaw fell slack, knowing she should speak but unable to find the words. They fit in one hand, and he held them out before him, his violent gaze stabbing her as he growled, "What is this!"

"My father's daggers," she responded in an even tone, much too calm for her wide eyes and stiff stance.

"Where did you get these?" he roared, his voice rushing through the space like an attack on her, and she winced as if the words stung her. Her gaze lowered to the floor, searching the designs in the rugs like they held her answer, but she was not swift enough. "Where!"

"I carried them," the words tumbled from her mouth, the lie her mind formulated in an effort to survive, "in my dress. I always carry them."

His hand closed around her throat, and her fingers circled his wrist, feeling the tendons and muscles taut and poised to squeeze. His palm closed, and she jerked back, hitting the wash table once more and causing the bowl to slip from the edge and shatter on the floor. His face fell inches from her own as he warned, "Do not lie to me."

Staring directly into the black pits of rage, she broke. Her fingers clawed his cheek, but he didn't release her neck even as the blood rose from the cut in his skin. A guttural sound choked from her lips, and she clawed at his wrist, trying to force his fingers to surrender. They closed, her throat closed, the black circled her eyes. With the last breath poised to die in her lungs, she spit out, "Razin!"

His hand freed her, and she leaned against the table, breathing deeply and irregularly. "Your servant?" he questioned, but she hadn't the air to answer. "You idiot!" he growled. "Do you plot against me? Do you hope to kill me and have your escape?"

"No!" she answered earnestly, now as furious as he. "He's sworn to protect me. He cannot leave my side!"

He drove the daggers down, and she closed her eyes, waiting. They landed with a clatter on the wood of the table behind her, and she exhaled uneasily. "They will think me a traitor! If they find him here, they will have me executed. They already suspect me because of you!"

"What can I do?" she shouted at his face, poised to explode with the bottled anger overflowing inside her chest. "You confine me to this space! You won't allow me outside!"

"Do not see him again," he commanded roughly. "You will speak with no one!"

All at once, she grabbed one of the daggers from the table and sprung forward to bury it in his chest. He took her wrist and held it firmly, but she still snarled, "You don't command me!"

She groaned as his grip tightened, and she feared her wrist might dislocate. He tore the dagger from her hand and buried it with a blunt crash into the wood, and her palm flexed futilely into the empty air. "Never do that again." His tone was low, his rush of anger now receding to a rough simmer. He turned from her and strode toward the entryway, but she was not through.

Her hand curled around the hilt, and she jerked to tear it from the wood and throw it for the back of his head. His strength was too much, the blade dug in too deep, and she didn't have the power to free it. He disappeared through the threshold before the other dagger could finish her plan. Impotent, she sunk into the ground, at once shaking and fretting, and she stabbed the blade into the dirt, again and again and again. Her knees drew into her chest, and she rocked over them, letting the hard bone dig into her forehead. She inhaled deeply and screamed.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Hi dolls! I'm on a roll with this story. My muse is in overdrive haha For the record, I realized I made a mistake in the previous chapter. I said the Nabataean Kingdom fell when the old woman was a child. I had my dates wrong or probably added things up incorrectly. In any case, the kingdom would have fallen before she was even born, I'll go back and edit that. Also, the Via Nova which the boy references is the Via Traiana Nova (sometimes just called Via Nova for short), and it's a Roman Road built by Trajan running beside the Limes Arabicus. Were you surprised by Razin's appearance? :D

Thank you Miss Lynxx and KingofTruands for the lovely reviews!

Miss Lynxx: What a sassy name, Miss! haha You're so sweet! They weren't so coy this chapter :) If you enjoy the battle scenes, then you'll like what's coming up in the next chapter... (winkwink). Their tangled little fight one moment, make out the next can be a bit annoying to write and undoubtedly to read, but things will come to a head soon. Given the cramped quarters, time around each other, etc they're already literally at each other's throats. And then there's Faustus stirring the pot :) Anyway, thank you so much for the kind words, and I really hope you enjoy this chapter as well xoxo

King: Hey there! I wondered if you were gunna love me and leave me, but I'm glad to see you've returned :) haha I find it a little funny that people like Arwa at this point in the story. I mean I know she's my character, and I birthed her and all that... but bitch is cray. She pushes everyone's limits, lashes out one moment, says crass things the next... It's a small wonder Maximus hasn't choked her before though clearly he kinda love/hates her defiance. And of course I'm so happy you like Maximus. He's a bit rougher than my usual male character, so I wasn't sure what kind of a response he would get. Good to know you approve :D As for your question, it is indeed a valid one. My answer? I don't have a clue at the moment. I know where I'm going with this, but things trail off and get fuzzy at the end. I mean this is set 13 years prior, so I don't really know how I could tie it in unless I did an epilogue. Would that be something you'd be interested in? Thanks for the sweet review, and I hope you liked this chapter xoxo


	8. Water in the Desert

Chapter 8  
>"Water in the Desert"<p>

Musicians were at Faustus' beck and call it seemed for he had gathered three men to play during dinner. No doubt the Romans enjoyed the exotic instruments, foreign lyrics, and irregular beat, but Arwa was distracted. The man sang a lament, with the tempo increased to make it sound as if it were a pleasant song, but she understood the words and the heavy eyes of each native gathered. The lament of love lost, of his wife stolen from him, of his heart's ache. The profound words cut to her soul, and she scarcely had the strength for a smile when Faustus noticed her attention and bent near her ear to ask, "Does this please you?"

Sitting at the proconsul's left now rather than Maximus' required her to engage him in conversation and entertain him, and though she realized the rare opportunity this situation presented, her heart was leaden with loss. Still, she met Faustus' glossy gaze and feigned a gentle smile. "Yes," she lied.

He sat straight in his chair and murmured something beneath his breath, knowing Arwa would bend forward to catch his words, and he would be afforded a brief glance down her dress. He was too drunk to accomplish this slyly, and so, aware of his games, she played into them for her own purposes.

"You are gracious," she returned in that velvety, smooth voice, like a gentle touch of her fingers gliding across his neck, "to call these men for me."

"I hope to show you the endless bounds of my generosity."

Her chin dipped subtly, allowing a coy angle for her to peer through her lashes at the praetor. His lips twisted in a drunken leer, revealing his stained purple teeth from the numerous cups of wine he had indulged in. "Why would you wish to be so," her teeth caught her lip as though searching for the proper word, and Faustus bent nearer this time, close enough that she could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath, "indulgent with me?"

"You are rare as a lily in the desert," he answered, and Arwa's smile awarded him for such an unexpectedly poetic response.

"It is unjust... I fear I will not be able to repay you." Her eyes fell reticently with her smile, and she felt his sweating palm cover her hand. The plump flesh squeezed around the numerous rings on his fingers, and his thick digits encircled her hand in what he must have thought a passionate fashion.

Her gaze flickered toward him, and she nearly flinched as she realized his face mere breaths from her own. She kept her stance, forced to stare into his shallow eyes, and endure the stench of his breath trailing across her face. "Your company is enough for now, but perhaps," he grinned licentiously and circled his clammy thumb across her hand, "we shall find some future arrangement."

Her mahogany eyes simmered in the candlelight, searching his gaze as though mesmerized by his proximity, and subtly she flexed her finger, drawing her knuckle within the folds of his palm as she promised in barely a breath, "I am at your command."

His features shifted with his intentions, at once spellbound and aroused, and his grip squeezed around her palm in undeniable want. Her lips curved sensually, and he bent nearer until she was certain he would kiss here, at the head of the table and beside the general who by all accounts owned her. She stiffened uncontrollably, her breath caught in her throat with a sharp gasp, and he paused as a low groan slid from his lips.

"You are so young," he marveled, "so fresh."

"Not here," she whispered in a vain attempt to keep him at bay for a while longer. His head tilted, all the more persuaded by her denial and amused perhaps mistaking her refusal for timidity. She saw the infatuation blossoming in his eyes beneath his greasy brow, and she swallowed thickly. "Not before him," she pressed to draw the attention away from herself.

Appropriately, the proconsul's intoxicated gaze swiveled to Maximus at Arwa's right, and even Faustus was not drunk enough to be unaware of the general's brooding air. The other officers at the table were swept into a roar of laughter at one of Hadrien's jests, all but Maximus who turned his cup of wine atop the table without indulging in it. Faustus smirked at the prospect that this man could impede his path, and his eyes returned to Arwa the more resolved and certain.

"He is of no concern," the praetor assured her, lifting her hand to draw his fatty lips across her knuckles, and her throat jerked uncontrollably.

Yet, she smiled, the edges shivering more uneasily than she hoped for them to, but Faustus took no notice.

‡ ‡ ‡

The new skin was pink, smooth, almost shiny in the afternoon light, and it protruded from her bronze body, irritated with the removal of her stitches. She ran her finger along it to feel how sensitive the wound was, but there was no flash of pain or throbbing to ease. She flexed her arm and twisted her elbow in all directions, pleased to finally have the freedom of motion. Even as she grew accustomed to her stitches, they fought her at certain angles, and she enjoyed the sensation of her own skin once more, as if she were restoring herself. She felt stronger, composed after her collapse three days before, calm in the heart of the storm.

The metal clatter as swords clashed caught her attention, and she looked up to see Maximus and Hadrien engaged once more. Like men, they laughed after each exchange as if so at ease with training as to be unconcerned who bested whom, but in their eyes was the flash of power, insult, and pride that drove them past amiable limits, like greedy wolves licking their lips and circling each other once more. She sat at the exterior of his tent while the men adopted the road as their training grounds, and though Maximus did not grunt for her to return inside, she wasn't convinced he wouldn't snap at her for her insolence later in the day when he realized he hadn't condemned her for any reason. Surely he would be remiss without his daily rush of anger toward her, but today she welcomed his blue eyes and sharp tongue. She was healing and ready for a fight.

Hadrien ducked the blade aiming for his chest, and Maximus as swiftly swung up through the air, barely missing the other man who spun out of reach. Hadrien chuckled and turned to take the chalice of wine from his servant. With the cup at his lips, he could only see the attack registered in his servant's face, and the wine spilled to the ground as he twisted and caught Maximus' sword with his own.

Glaring at him over the crossed blades, Hadrien warned, "Never spill another man's wine."

Maximus smirked and jumped back into the space as the man's sword fell, slashing toward his shoulder. Soldiers stopped amid their routes into or out of the fortress, partly impeded by the men's war of egos but mostly curious to see which general would succeed. The crowd gathered about them, corralling the scene into a crude circle, and the soldiers called out quips or cheers according to their allegiance. So the training shifted into a performance, and when their blades caught next, Hadrien threw his weight forward, pummeling into Maximus who stumbled over his heels.

"Keep your footing," she grumbled under her breath.

His momentum sent him onto the ground and barreling over his shoulder, but before he could twist to his feet, he saw Hadrien's blade angling through the air. He turned, and the tip landed beside his ear, so close a blow he heard its whistle and curt impact into the dirt. His gaze turned as he stared into Hadrien's crooked grin, and he grabbed the man's arm and rolled atop the blade, forcing it from Hadrien's grip. Maximus was on his feet as the man staggered back weaponless, and he paused in anticipation of Hadrien's surrender.

"Take his sword!" she pressed in an aggravated tone.

The general's brown eyes flickered from his discarded sword lying in the dirt to Maximus' tense stance, and all at once, he sprung forward. Maximus swung, the blade crying as it flew through the air, but the general slid to his knee beneath it, reaching between the man's feet and retrieving his weapon. Maximus drove his heel down to catch Hadrien's hand, but the general was too swift and on his feet with a cocky grin. Around them, the soldiers cried out in good sport, and Hadrien lifted his arms as though crowning himself victor so soon.

Maximus drove forward, growling through clenched teeth, his blade poised overhead, and Hadrien could not contain his attack. The pair collided and went tumbling through the crowd, landing with dirt thrown into the air as a poor cover for their hand combat. Swords neglected, they took to their fists, pummeling into each other with pure brawn and raw egos. The Roman way –driven by conquer and victory with no regard for how they reached it. At length, Hadrien began laughing through bloodstained teeth, and Arwa didn't neglect to roll her eyes and exhale hotly through her nose, irritated that it was these beasts who overcame her people.

"I need more wine if we're to continue to the death," he charged and extended his hand expectantly toward his servant even while buried in the dirt with Maximus' fist poised above his face.

The general shook his head and laughed as well, abandoning his grip on his friend's tunic as he sat back into the dirt and rested his arms across his knees where his chest was relieved of its burden, and he breathed heavily and deeply. "My friend, I've never engaged you while you were sober."

"If I'm to meet my end, let me be content about it." His cup was returned to his grip now full to the brim, and he seemed ignorant of the sand and dirt lining the sanguine wine for he brought it to his lips and drank thickly. It stained his skin as it slipped past the corners of his mouth and tangled in his stubble. Once emptied, he accepted Maximus' extended hand and allowed the general to draw him to his feet.

Maximus patted his friend amiably on the shoulder, and their previous combative air gave way to a bout of masculine camaraderie. The soldiers who had witnessed their fight now reluctantly dispersed and continued on their way, and Maximus retrieved his sword and finally acknowledged Arwa's presence to command, "Bring me my cup."

Her mahogany eyes sizzled beneath the desert sun. Her face was removed of any humanity, wholly consumed by her vexation as if hatred were the fabric of her flesh. She was unmoving, and his gaze narrowed a brief warning as he flicked his chin dismissively toward the tent. At length, she rose to her feet, taking the time to brush the dirt from her dress in mild defiance, but she disappeared behind the canvas of his tent, alleviating him of the need to discipline her –again. His nerves were worn from her constant disobedience as if she were a glutton for his lashings, and her insubordinate eyes stroked his ego like salt to an open wound. The daughter of a warrior tribesman, he had anticipated her insolence, but even the most stubborn of horses could be broken.

She slipped through the canvas tent a moment later with his cup dangling between two fingers. Her feet were heavy, her hips swaying beneath the folds of her dress, and she paused before him and extended her hand with a weary look. He took it from her and sipped at the water as he returned his attentions to his friend.

"Whenever you are rested," he said and lifted the hilt of his sword.

Hadrien waved him off. "If you intend to continue until you've won, call Aulus. I'm too stubborn an ass to allow a younger man victory."

"Pick up your sword, Hadrien. Perhaps my mood will shift, and I'll take a fall."

He laughed over his cup of wine. "You are young and have your arrogance to feed while I am old and seek to maintain my reputation. Find your triumph with another man and leave me to my wine, Meridius."

"We must prepare for our next march," Maximus reminded him.

"Those bastards have yet to beat us. We may as well send the slaves in our stead. Their abilities are on par."

"It is your numbers, not their lack of ability," she said stiffly, and only then did the men notice her presence lingering near their conversation.

Maximus' brow contorted with exasperation, but Hadrien chuckled loudly. "And what does a woman know of combat?"

"I've trained so long as I've lived," she countered with a haughty air drawn about her. "You Romans charge blindly with your prides at the hilt."

"And what do you bear, girl?"

Her lips curved in the smile that had broken him their first night together: The sinuous arch and taunting eyes which made his hands flexed as she answered, "Skill."

The general threw his head back and laughed heartily unlike his friend whose muscular build had turned to stone. "You have your match, Meridius," Hadrien suggested while gesturing grandly toward Arwa with his cup. The wine sloshed over the edge, but the general didn't seem to care. His dark eyes glittered with amusement, and by contrast, Maximus' frown deepened. "You desire your win. Fetch it."

"What sport is there in so easy a victory?" he returned, near a growl. "I've already left my mark." He roughly grabbed her arm, drawing it out where her pink scar was visible.

She tore her elbow from his grip and challenged, "Had I not stumbled, you would bear mine instead."

"I should like to test this theory," Hadrien interjected between their locked eyes where the fight brewed like the growling of a violent storm, and he offered the hilt of his sword toward Arwa.

Her mahogany orbs sustained Maximus' rigid gaze, her chin lifting when he straightened to his full height and towered above her. Ignoring Hadrien's input, she extended her hand and said, "You took my weapons."

Since discovering the hidden blades, Maximus had tied the daggers to his waist, carrying them with him daily, and their presence in his hands was a steady insult to her father's memory and her name.

"I won't hold back for you," he warned in a low tone, almost a whisper shared between them.

Her lips flickered indulgently drawing his attention away from her eyes and to the soft flesh instead. "Neither will I."

He drew the daggers from his waist and offered them, and a full grin took over her features, illuminating her face with an unbridled contrast between her youthful pleasure and dark intentions. There was blood in her eyes, the appetite of her people, and the curved blades gleamed in the golden light as they fell through her fingers natural and elegant as water. Her chest expanded with a deep breath, eyes flickered closed, and when they opened again, her features settled with serpentine precision. The pair parted.

The air was burnt, the sky a golden haze, flags crackled overhead, and soldiers laughed in the distance. Dirt stuck to her feet, scratching between the leather and skin, and a gust of wind sent the edge of her dress billowing out at her side. She felt nothing, heard nothing, focused wholly on his broad shoulders tense with awareness, chin tucked slightly toward his chest to keep out the sun's rays, his blue eyes shaded away from her sight, but she felt them. She felt their concentration piercing her, and with her every step, they followed.

The metal cried as he caught her first blow, his blade shifting to stop the other dagger swinging down on him. They parted, and she heard the steady beat of her heart in her ears, the march of battle timing out her strategy. It sped up, the adrenaline was feeding her like venom through her veins, and she struck, knowing she was faster, she was more agile, she was a vision under the blistering haze. He kept his feet under him, his elbows near his chest, so that he barely moved beyond his blade to fight her. A new strategy, but none could tame his boldness. She was amused that he tried. The knives twisted restlessly at her sides, and she felt his gaze flicker toward them, wary of their speed and accuracy. She could throw one and end this power struggle between them, but then, how would she see the pride snuffed from his eyes?

She sprung like a snake from the grass, one blinding flash of power, and her charge could not be ceased. He retreated under the bevy of her attacks, one blade sliding after the other, never missing an opportunity to penetrate the shield of his sword's reach. He anticipated each assault though this close she could see his brow creased in concentration. Both knives drove forward, and he angled his elbows from his body to catch them like their eyes locking above their weapons: his furious and tumultuous as the stormy seas and hers endless pits of wanton rage. The edges of her lips hiccupped almost playfully, confusing him and distracting him from her boney knee buried into his gut. He stumbled back, and she swung, the curved dagger glistening in the light. The men were quiet, and she realized as she straightened once more the crowd which had formed around them, greater than the men who had watched the two generals. Maximus' head lolled between his shoulders, his blade hanging at his side, as he focused on the cut in his tunic drawn across his shoulder and above his chest. Blood rose to the surface on his taut skin, but the wound was no more than a scratch.

As his neck straightened, the sun caught his eyes and turned them a searing shade of blue. The levy broke, and his wrath came abounding across the space. His sword swung straight for her neck, and she lifted her blades to catch him even as she knew she couldn't match his strength. Their weapons collided loudly, her feet slid in the dirt, and as soon, her arms gave way to his overpowering brawn. She sunk to one knee, barely missing the blade which caught the bundle of hair piled atop her head. The leather strap severed, the onyx locks tumbled over her shoulder to brush the dirt ground below her, and her dark eyes peered up at the general with fire smoldering in their depths. Her dagger found the edge of her dress and tore the seam up to her knee. Her bronze calf slipped from its cover, and the desert sun sank into her skin like liquid gold before his eyes. She drew to her feet in one, slow, seamless shift through her body like a serpent coiling into place. Her dark mane slid up her dress until it sat listlessly around her hip, and part hung across her eyes and shaded her face. Across the space, he rotated the sword in his grip, mocking her, and smirked with one corner of his mouth. The soldiers around them erupted into laughter and jeers.

Her lips curled with blood lust, and her pride nipped at her heels. She rushed him, no longer impeded by her dress around her ankles, and she was the swifter, twisting and evading his every swing. Any courtesy afforded to her sex had dissipated, and she felt the impact of his blows travel up her arms and shake her to her core. But she would not stop. Her knife came slashing down, so close to his face he felt the tip brush his brow, and he reacted. The crack as his elbow landed in her face shouted through the crowd's calls, followed by an all too feminine cry of pain. Her heels caught on the edge of her dress, and she tumbled onto her back with her face contorted. Reality bound to his ankles and drug him into the moment. The blood thirst evaporated from his eyes like a blindfold falling away, and he saw her too clearly, sprawled on the ground and rocking unconsciously as the pain bloomed beneath her socket and through her cheek. Her eyes found him, but she was blind. She tore to her feet and attacked him even as he commanded, "That's enough!"

She was deaf to his calls, receding from her body into an instinctual state. The pain circled her waist, sliding out through her limbs like poison. Her body felt at once heavy and weightless, and she was caught somewhere in between. She thought of her father's head rolling from between his shoulders, their hands on her mother's skin, her brother's terrified gaze, the fate of her people, her future, her life. Her body was suspended in the freefall as the desert opened and swallowed her whole. Only the memories and the pain remained, boiling inside her with such pressure she thought she might burst at the seams, and her skin shuddered with the need to scream. No familiar hand reached to save her, to catch her, to guide her to solid ground. She was lost in the abyss, unaware that she had been disarmed or that he was ordering her to stop. Her fists looked so small beating his chest and his arms, and he seemed an insurmountable challenge, one which she could never overcome. Finally, he captured her wrists, pulled them behind her back, and forced her to face him. Her eyes burned with the desert sand and heat and the pressure building behind them. She couldn't breathe. Her head was throbbing with the pain, swirling around her, but she focused on the blue eyes like cool water to her raw wounds and heard him say in an oddly gentle tone, "That's enough."

The present poured around her as a deluge of untamed rapids: The laughter of the crowd around them and heckles of the soldiers. Her face contorted as she ripped her wrists from his grip. She wouldn't drown. Her feet rushed into the tent where their calls followed her, but the interior was cool with shade and their sounds dulled. At the washstand, her shaking hands wet the linen rag, and drew it across her brow, neck, and finally, the searing pain of her left cheekbone. She hissed as she applied gentle pressure, but his presence distracted her. She spun to face him, ready for his rage, but when he lifted his hands, she retreated back, running into the table where the bowl heaved noisily. He took the rag from her and carefully adjusted it over her wound. All at once, she pushed his hand away, eyes simmering with pure, unadulterated hatred, and he as calmly replaced it. She hit his hand again, his chest next, his face, but he was a boulder in her path. She growled under her breath, trying to force him away from her, but his unyielding patience waited out her flash of anger. Soon it ended with her breathless and furious and exhausted. He replaced the rag, causing her to wince and turn away, and though her hands flinched at her sides, she didn't strike him. More gently, he applied the damp compress and cupped the back of her neck to hold her in place. Her eyes were on the floor, her hands limp at her sides, her whole body diminished as she surrendered to his care. The bulky guise of her power and rage dissolved, making him too aware of her youth and her slender stature. Regret's hand knotted his gut, and he turned the compress as her skin heated the first side and carefully replaced it. Her brow shuddered, and his thumb fell across her cheek and the edge of her mouth to soothe away the pain. Her features were dead to him, her eyes too heavy to lift and face him, her body unmoving.

"I'm tired of pain," the voice whispered, too broken and drained to be her own. He released the compress and took her face, angling her chin to see the extent of his damage. Within her barren expression, her eyes pulsed as a raw nerve, exposed and trembling, so crude his chest burned as her gaze seared into him. Her voice was gritty when she pressed in broken Greek, "I feel nothing… I wish you had killed me. Why won't you kill me?"

His forehead touched hers in barely a brush, and his breath hot as the desert air seared her face. Agitated with his games, she turned away and retreated into the table. The bowl pitched noisily behind them, screaming in her ears, and his arm snaked around her, holding to the edge of the table and pinning her between the wood and his body. His fingers buried in her chestnut locks, still holding her head captive, as he stole the breath from her lips. She groaned into his mouth, flustered by the strength of his body etched out beneath his tunic and the soft yield of his kiss atop her own. That gentle kiss, so seemingly innocent, set fire to her brain, and her body fought against him. Her abdomen rubbed against his hips as she struggled to be free, and his head hung heavy against her, his grip tightening on the wood; and he sunk his hips deeper into her flesh, wanting to still her and wanting to feel her. His mouth oppressed her, his whole weight funneling into his kiss, and the wooden edge of the table embedded deep into her back. The pain swept through her like a rush of wind to feed her fire, and her fingers curled around his neck, digging her nails into the tendons and veins. He groaned low in his throat at the flash of pain, registering with the flick of his features, and he released her head to tear her hand from his neck. Five violent points trailed along his bronze skin, and his lips found the palm of her hand, trailing from the center out to the tip of each finger, patient and gentle. She shuddered at the sensation at once arousing and irritating, the nerves too sensitive for his stubble and soft flesh. She twisted with a cry, but his hips dug into her, squeezing the breath from her lungs.

He released her wrist, and it fell limply to her side as if he kissed away its will to rebel. He found her lips again, and his kiss was heady with need, so distracted and driven he almost pinned her over the table. Her lips trembled with a flash of pain up her spine, and a throaty sound choked from her tongue. He met it with a low growl, and she bit his lip, rolling the tender flesh between her teeth until she tasted metallic, warm blood. He groaned again, jerking his hips against her, and she released his lip with a sharp cry as her back cracked against the table. Her fingers twisted in his short curls, burying her nails into his scalp and holding tight to find his kiss, passionate and furious. His palm cupped her backside, sinking his fingers into the muscle and using that leverage to drag her up his body. Her dress caught between them, straining at her shoulders with the twisting and tangling, and her breasts rubbed against his chest. Her jaw hung slack, throat caught between a moan and a hiss of pain, and his tongue slipped inside, distracting her from the wood grain scratching her skin. Her neck bent with the force of his tongue penetrating her, and she whimpered into his mouth. He sat her atop the narrow table, forcing his hips to follow her as she slid away from him. The bowl fell with a harsh clatter, the second one they had broken in so little time, but she was immune to all but him. He released the edge of the table to take her lower back and draw her to him again, longing for her soft flesh and the heat of her thighs. Her knees parted without her consent, and he pulled her forcefully to him, oblivious to the sharp tear of her dress up the seam all the way to her hip. The fabric sifted between her thighs, sliding too easily as he opened her wider to him.

Exposed, she felt the hardened shaft folding between their bodies, digging into her pulsing inner thighs, and she quivered as a new deluge of lust flooded her core. All at once, her fingers gripped his hair and tore forcefully, ripping his head back and exposing his strong neck. He growled through his clenched jaw, and her lips swept in to follow the line of muscles pulled taut as her hands held him in place. Her tongue licked the salty sweat from his skin, and her teeth sunk into his neck holding like an animal, tasting the erratic beat of his heart. He groaned, his hands cupping her hips, and his arms flexed with a shuddering of all those muscles as he wrenched her against him. The shock travelled through her inner thighs, up her body, and to her mouth bearing harder into his skin as if she wanted to draw blood, but he wrapped her long locks around his palm and yanked to pull her away. Her bite was red and violent against his skin, her mouth hung open poised beneath his hungry lips, and she released his head, letting his nose barely nuzzle against her own. Her neck ached with the angle, but his searing mouth found the tender flesh, kissing gently and tenderly like a lover would. His hand released her hair, but his kiss stole her will to straighten. She was suspended in a permanent arch, her head hanging between her shoulders, eyes closed to focus on the soft lips dragging across her skin, and in the midst, her inner thigh pulsed forcefully, her hips rotating subtly to rock against him. His lips paused, and she could feel the lust sifting through his pores with sudden need. Her fingers found the tear in his tunic and all at once tore the fabric. The shoulder unraveled, and her palm blindly searched the contours of his chest, feeling the ripple of muscle, protruding bone, and grit of sand lacing his flesh. It flattened, and she could feel the powerful repercussions of his heart through his flesh. Her nails dug in, wishing she could reach through the bone and flesh and tear out his tenderness.

He swept her into his arms so swiftly she had no chance to hold on as he tossed her onto the bed. She cried out her surprise, the bed shifted under her weight, and she scrambled onto her elbows to face him. He tore the tunic over his shoulders, and her mahogany eyes surveyed his body eagerly and greedily, eyeing the stacked abdomen, broad shoulders, strong neck, powerful arms, and large hands… He gripped the torn edge of her dress, ripping with such strength she almost tumbled out of the material. It gave way to his piercing gaze as it drug across her naked flesh, almost tangible and yet not enough. Her tongue curled upon her top lip, wetting the dry flesh, but she was eternally parched and heated with the blood racing beneath her skin. She yearned for the oppression of his body, the sharp angles of his hips in her inner thighs, and her eyes trembled uncertainly as she felt his elbows sink into the mattress on either side of her ribs, like his body settling over her from his chest, down his abdomen, and finally his hips, lead by his stiff shaft. The tip slid between her lips, and her hands found his shoulders, hoping to steady herself before the plunge. He fell in deeper, controlled, his face above her own to watch the flicker of pain tremble across her features. She choked on a cry through her teeth and turned away, twisting her neck and closing her eyes as she felt him sink in, too unyielding, too much. His hips found her inner thighs where she had wanted them, but her legs closed around him, simultaneously wishing to force him away. She exhaled the pent up breath all at once, parting her heavy lashes to see his fingers tangled in the sheet, a tense fist waiting to explode like the bundle of need embedded in her stomach. Her knees closed around his waist, mirroring the muscles wrapping around him, and she pulled him in deeper. His weight shifted over her, driving him in under her command, until there was nothing more to take, and her neck arched with pain and pleasure, too tangled up until they were indistinguishable. And she wanted both. She wanted it all.

Her fingers found his head and pulled him over her, letting his whole body consume her and flatten her into the mattress, and his hips angled back, sliding his length out of her even as his tongue penetrated her lips. She moaned loudly, rotating her hips blindly, agitated with the pain swarming as he left her. His knees balanced against the wooden frame, holding him steady as he thrust into her again. Even restraining himself, the impact was too forceful; he lost control feeling those folds enveloping him, burning him and contracting around him with more pressure than his body could contain. She cried out and threw her head back, leaving him to groan into the arch of her neck, and his hand found her knee, opening her wider to him, letting his hips sink in further. Her leg fought in his grasp, trying to close around his waist, and he pinned her knee to the mattress as he pulled away. Her body shuddered beneath him, and he could feel the quiver of her pulse against his lips. He closed his eyes, inhaling her dense scent, feeling her soft flesh molding to his body, and he fell into her faster and harder as his desire overcame him. The moan tumbled from her lips, at once encouraging him and pained by him, and it sunk into his skin, making the blood rush into his waist. His lips tenderly kissed her neck, his hips hit her again, and she tensed beneath him. The bed shifted into the dirt under his impact, his sweaty skin slid against the frame, and he lost his grip. His muscles compacted around the bone, using every ounce of strength to hold him in place, but he slid from her lips, immediately yearning for their wet burn.

Grabbing her hips, he roughly angled her head toward the pillows, and she obediently crawled into the center of the sheets, taking his waist to guide him over her once more, fearful he had already forgotten her and lost his way. But he sunk into her, taking his time again to savor that first explosion of nerves inside his brain, manifested in the low groan leaving his lips. His body ached for want of her, paining not to have her, all of her, wanting to taste and touch and consume her. Her thighs were slick with her dewy sweat and her wetness sliding down them, and he slipped past thresholds, beyond what he thought she could bear, and buried inside her. He rocked his hips, letting himself fight against the tightness of her walls. Her features were stone, leaden with cries she didn't voice, a warrior to her heart, her knees fell back and open for him, and he rocked deeper into her until he heard the cry escape her lips. He kissed them, numb with passion and bloodlust, and she was furious beneath him, unleashing her desire through her mouth. The dense heat captured his lips, reminding him too much of her core, and he wanted to remember it again. He thrust hard, enjoying how her body bended beneath him, and her nails dug into the contorted muscles of his back. She moaned loudly, he kissed her deeply, losing himself in her lips and inside her thighs. Her body was torturous, at once killing him and driving him on. He wanted to burn up inside her, and he found her again and again. His body fell over her, pinning her beneath him where he could feel each repercussion travel through her.

The need had her savage, writhing beneath him, circling her hips to tease him, and he hesitated at her entrance, just to feel how she taunted him. He pushed onto his palms, forcing his forearms beneath her knees, spreading her as he gazed down his body to his cock sliding in and out of her. He wanted her to see, to focus on that one sensation of him driving into her again and again. Without his weight, her body rebounded atop the mattress, and her palms flattened against the headboard, arms stiff to hold her in place and meet his every assault. Greedily, her arms helped her on, pushing her into him with each thrust, and his head fell back between his shoulders with a low groan. His eyes devoured her hungrily, traveling from their impact to her bouncing breasts, her lips parted with ecstasy, and her fierce eyes searching for his own. Their fire and raw want sent him crashing over her, sweeping across her body to taste her lips. His arms shuddered to hold him, her legs opened wider, and her nails drug down his stomach, slow and hard and long. He growled in his throat, and her legs snuck between his arms, tangling around his knees. In one movement, she twisted and had him pinned to the bed beneath her, and her dark eyes simmered with pleasure and untamed want. He gazed up entranced by her force, and she straddled his waist, sinking until she sat over him with nothing more to take. Her palms flattened on his chest, giving her leverage as she pushed her weight into them and rocked her hips the opposite direction. Buried inside her, he fought against her tight walls, and he exhaled hotly through his nostrils, throbbing and needing more than her teasing. His large hands circled her hips, picking her up and forcing her back down on him. She moaned out through her lips, and his feet grounded him on the bed, letting his hips thrust up to meet her. The sensation so severe, her body tensed like every held breath coiled around her ribs, and she couldn't breathe or move. It was too much, rattling her senses and driving her mind into new depths.

The flicker of sour breath, greedy eyes behind her lip, the repercussion of their fists. Teeth gritting, she buried her nails deep into his flesh to still their sudden trembling, and her eyes stared severely down at the scarred skin, unblinking for fear of awaking to that scene. Wounds he had taken, battles he had won… Those large hands gripped her slender hips, the calluses digging in from years circling the hilt of a sword, the scars on his knuckles, the lives he had stolen. His hips hit her, and she jerked uncontrollably, shaking down to her core, and she couldn't still it. She could feel their palms on her skin, searching for her pain, lavishing in it, and blindly her hands found his throat, circling and pressing down on the strong muscles, urged with the rush of survival. He groaned, the sound more strained and guttural under her attack, and she threw her weight forward to silence him. All at once, he tore her hands away and pinned them behind her back. She struggled against his strength, unable to decipher the darkness closing around her, and his hand cupped her head, holding her in place where her eyes were on level with his own. Her gaze was frantic and searching through the space. She couldn't find him. He bent nearer until their foreheads met, and the sensation shocked her. Suddenly she felt the electricity of his eyes, the blue piercing through her haze and drawing her out of that endless pit. Those hands, the hands of a soldier, the hands of killer, held her shuddering against him. Her breasts crushed to his chest, their hearts sharing the same erratic beat and their lungs the same breathless air. Her face sunk nearer his own, her eyes unblinking, like her body forcing herself deeper into his embrace. Blindly, her hands clutched to his waist, sliding up the sweaty skin to his ribs where they prodded through the muscles of his chest, slipping around to his arms, his shoulders, and finally cradling his face and tangling her fingers in his damp curls. Like a superstitious child, she couldn't release him –like without him she would crumble and fall through the earth. Her fingers had memories, recognizing him like shackles falling from her mind, and she tested his lips to remember their yield. His powerful arms encircled her and sheltered her in his embrace. Their kisses grew heavier, his eyes flickered closed, and her fingers gripped him desperately until she met the blue orbs once more and relaxed. She needed to see him, to know it was him taking her, to find the haven in his arms.

His hips angled beneath her, and she sucked in a sharp breath. The blood hammered through her, and she remembered the unfulfilled pulsing between her thighs. She rediscovered him inside her, that throbbing pleasure of him so hard and unyielding it nearly hurt. She rocked her hips, letting him fight inside her, and moaned softly. She was breathless, eyes still burning with the pleasure he caused, and his lips flickered guilty and hungrily as his arm flexed and drug her against him. She numbly found his lips, and her hips began rocking once more, seeking to imitate the motion he'd nearly driven her over the edge with. Every piece of him sifted inside her, pushing, unyielding, so stiff it nearly made her eyes roll into her head, and she groaned loudly. He wanted more, but he was mesmerized to see her brow contorted and lips parted and breathless, to feel her heavy and safe in his grasp. Her eyes clenched shut briefly, and distracted, his hands found her hips again. She growled in agitation, and reached to stop him but he rocked her harder over him, helping find that deep pleasure she so wanted. Her face trembled, her body burning, and she forgot to breathe. Every ounce of her concentration was focused on his cock inside her, his rough hands rocking her hips, and her clit sliding against the dark trail over his abdomen. She moaned the last of the air from her lungs only to suck it sharply in the next, and her hands found the packed muscles of his shoulders, gripping tightly for a better angle. He bent and caught her breast between his teeth, rolling the hardened skin between his lips as his tongue flicked across the tip. Her body jerked uncontrollably, trying to pull away from the intense feeling, but he only held on tighter. Her back arched to bring her breasts closer to him where he wouldn't pull so hard, and his lips circled around it, gently sucking it deeper into his mouth. The pleasure collided deep in her belly, and her toes curled with every muscle coiling to release. She moaned again, eyes flickering open to find him, simultaneously lost, overwhelmed, and unfulfilled.

His mouth released her breast, and his hands changed their siege, forcing her once more to meet his thrusts beneath her, so deep she felt he might tear through her, but his eyes held her tight like fingers circling her wrists. He pushed her to the edge but wouldn't let her fall. Her arms felt weak, her body drained of every need except meeting him and feeling him drive into her faster and deeper. Her nails dug into his skin, her head lolled forward, her onyx hair tumbling across their shoulders and arms, snaking and twirling in the beads of sweat. She found him through the thin veil, locking to his blue gaze, mirroring back the swell of emotions tearing her apart. Her slick skin was slipping in his grip, and her legs burned with the exertion to meet him, but the unnamed desire drove her on, a feeling she'd never experienced and so powerful she was impotent to defy it. It hit her like a fist in the gut, sucking all the air from her lungs, and she felt her bones would crumble beneath its power. It tore through her, unbounded, testing the limitations of her flesh, and she threw her head back, letting it out through her lips as a sharp cry. She contracted around him so tightly he couldn't breathe. She fought away from his grip, so sensitive his thrusts pained her, his shaft too stiff inside her, and she shuddered uncontrollably. His fingers dug into her flesh, finding the bone beneath her hips, and holding tight to slam her into him a final time. He held her there, all the way over him, gritting his teeth as the pleasure released, spilling into her. She whimpered unconsciously as the heat spread through her abdomen, and finally, he released her.

Her muscles were gone, her strength evaporated through her pores, her mind swirling and heavy, and she collapsed against his side, wincing as she felt him slide from her. Still, she pulsed as the pleasure melted into her veins, and she could relax, breathless and defeated. Her back was to him, her face situated uncomfortably across his bicep, her arm twisted behind her, but she couldn't be bothered to move. Never had she felt at once drained and fulfilled. He untangled her, rolling her to face him, and his hand pushed away the veil of her hair as he kissed her, both hungry and satisfied. The numbness faded, chased away by his kiss, and she enjoyed awaking to him. Her eyes opened, and she placed her hand atop his, tangling her fingers within his grip. Their sweaty skin stuck to each other like pieces of her hair twisted across her naked back and his stomach.

With time silence settled, the afternoon waned, giving way to the purple twilight of night, and the tent was dark and cool. She drew closer to the heat of his skin, and his arm supported her, holding her near. The brawn of his body relaxed against her, seemingly malleable now that the muscles had succumbed. The walls struck between them since they first met were abandoned to ruble. Searching his eyes, she prodded the empty space as if surveying the wreckage and uncertain how to cross the threshold. Her fingers guided his thumb to her lips, and she kissed it gently, then the next and the next until each tip was attended. His hand encircled her palm, so large it swallowed her whole, and she drew it between their chests, allowing her chin to rest lightly atop them. Her lips parted expectantly, wishing to test these waters and build a new bridge across them, but her mind had dissolved under his hands. The links were shattered, and she searched through the pieces for her Greek. Without warning, her face bloomed in an unhindered smile which he unconsciously returned even as his brow knit in question.

"I-" She shook her head and closed her eyes to concentrate on their cool, black depths. There was nothing for her there, and at length, she scrounged together a broken explanation, "I forget Greek."

He laughed, that sudden roar that she had only heard him reserve for his friends, and she opened her eyes eagerly to see for herself the reaction she had caused. Mesmerized with the rush of mirth, gravity seemed to lose its hold over his features, and when his laughs could be stifled, he rewarded her with a heavy kiss. She felt his smile transferring onto her lips like an imprint upon her features, the evidence of him seeping into her skin. She settled against his arm once more, her eyes glittering in the dim light as they gazed at him, and he chuckled under his breath. She saw it as a brief shadow in her periphery, that connection stemming between them, and the longer she stared into his eyes the more it came into focus. It begged for exploration, made her heart tumble at the thought of her feet touching it, and for the first time, cool uncertainty swept into her gut as she feared he would not meet her in the center.

She gripped his hand tighter as if to chase away that brief fear and asked, "Will you take me to Rome?"

The return of her language cemented the importance of her question, and he could clearly see the flicker of concern in her eyes. His thumb brushed across her fingers, and he answered, "When I return."

"Is that where you live?"

"No… I come from the west."

"Where?"

"Emerita Augusta."

Her brow knit slightly as she rolled the syllables within her head, trying to sear them into her memory, but she murmured, "You Romans have such harsh names."

"It is a powerful name," he corrected, "given by the Emperor Augustus."

She licked her dry lips and tried to picture a world to the west of her lands, but her mind was blank with possibilities and fear. "Is there a place for me in your home?"

He inhaled deeply, thrust forward to a time when these battles would be finished, when he could return home, but he could not picture her at his side. "I haven't decided."

"But… you will not leave me in Rome?" she worried before she could cease herself.

"No," he promised and brushed his lips across her slender fingers, easing their iron grip from his hand. His features settled, and she regretted this topic for the severity of his face as he explained, "I don't know what to do with you."

She considered their joined hands, feeling less romantic than confused by their tangled fingers. He had only taken her moments before and yet she faced the prospect he would release her as swiftly. The emotion shuddered through her body and out her lips before her mind could even recognize it, "I'm afraid." The words were a key. They unlocked something too deep, and she hid her trembling lips against his hand, more fearful to allow anyone to see the raw pain strewn across her features. But the words tumbled out of her like shadows rushing into the light and dissolving to air. "I have nothing. I am nothing."

She only realized her fragile strength when it shattered from beneath her, but he drew her deeper into his arms, folding her leaden body beneath him and twisting them both to sink over her flesh. The tears slipped past her closed lids with the breaking of a levy she had tended for years. They slid down her temples and buried in her hair without cease, but she was consumed by his lips molding to her again and again. He pinned her between mattress and his body, at once sheltering her and carrying her. In his lips was surrender, and she had never tasted anything sweeter. She submitted, yearning for him like water in the desert.

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hi lovelies! You know I'm up no good when the chapter is this long :) Hope it was pleasing...

Thank you to Miss Lynxx and KingofTraunds for the sweets reviews!

Lynxx: Action sequence, yes? hehe Razin and Arwa's plan will not be revealed for awhile because I'm mean like that! Actually I just want to keep a secret for as long as possible so that everyone is surprised, but I think you'll like it :) Soooo I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for the kind words xoxo

King: You're adorable! My muse flowed into my noodle... That sounds kinda inappropriate haha Anyway after this chapter, I guess it's hard to think of anything else! But I hope that you liked it! Thanks for the sweet review, deary :D xoxo


	9. Alone

Chapter 9  
>"Alone"<p>

The wooden poles tied to hold up the canvas groaned softly as a heavy gust of wind tested its threshold. The air tasted fresh, like morning. The pale light pricked at her lashes, slipping through their tangled web to reach her eyes, and she exhaled heavily and buried her face deeper into the pillow. Subtle clinking of metal penetrated the thin material of his private quarters, and her features twitched with a flicker of agitation. Reality seeped into her dreams, and she gathered the strength to open her eyes and face the morning. Her naked flesh settled so comfortably against the mattress, unhindered by twisted fabric or the lines of her dress as it usually was. Indulgently, she shifted her position if only to feel the sheet and padding smooth against her skin. As she faced the opposite direction, she realized the vacancy beside her. Her fingers spread across the space as if her mind were playing a trick, but the mattress was empty and cool to her touch. Confused, she slid onto her elbow and surveyed the meager space. His ripped tunic and her shredded dress were absent, the broken pieces of the bowl were replaced by a new basin, and his racks were barren of his armor.

Sleep molded to her eyes like a mask, and she strained to push through that lethargic fog and piece together these facts. Each morning he woke her when he arose, though not for the pleasure of her company. He merely made no secret of his wanderings: his footsteps were heavy, his tunic a shout through the empty space, even his thoughts seemed louder. By effect, she was forced to wake as well, but her body recognized before her mind the late shade of sun creeping through the canvas walls. She had overslept deep into the morning, and this realization only further increased her confusion. Holding the sheet to her naked chest, she pushed herself to sit and winced unconsciously at the soreness lingering in her muscles and settling too densely between her thighs. Her body was the evidence of their offense to her family and her name, a sin she had gladly partaken in. Flashes of their night flickered before her eyes, and she tucked her lip between her teeth, her fingers itching as she recalled the contours of his body beneath her touch. Even her breath agitated the ache between her legs as though it were his mark for her to bear –she was now his.

Subtle sounds trailed from the common area, and she stared at the canvas wall like she could see through it to the person occupying the other side. Her heartbeat increased when she wondered if it were him, and she hesitated, naked but shrouded in his bed. Silence prodded her curiosity, and she quietly slipped out of bed, withholding a groan as her muscles contracted to allow her to stand. Out of modesty, no matter how ill timed, she gathered the sheet around her and drew the material into her palms so that she wouldn't stumble on the length. Balancing upon her toes, she approached the partition and barely parted the fabric with one finger. A lone eye bent near to peer through the slender gap, and she searched the space until…

There was a sharp crack of leather outside, and she startled visibly. Her hand tightened around the sheet, dragging it higher to her collarbones as she became too painfully aware of her naked skin and the numerous Roman soldiers swarming the fort. Yet, their tent was empty. A fresh platter of fruit, bread, and meat settled on the table, and her eyes flickered across its offerings and awoke her stomach. It growled loudly, and she flattened her palm across it as if to still it. Though there was no one to hear its pleas, she was embarrassed all the same. Evidently their sleepless night together had done more than steal the strength from her bones. She was famished. She slipped through the partition without a sound and surveyed the empty area suspiciously. No demons or hidden Romans jumped from their cover, and so she grasped one of the plush fruits from the platter and sunk her teeth into its soft flesh. The sweetness assaulted her mouth, the juice burst across her lips and slid down her chin, and she clumsily wiped it away with the back of her forearm. She licked the juice from her lips and smiled with satisfaction for she had never enjoyed such exotic fruit before her time in the fort. The lone silver lining of her stay. When she was finished, all that was left was the pit. She tore off a piece of bread and only then noticed the bundle situated unassumingly at the edge of the table.

Her brow flickered in intrigue, and her fingers walked along the length of the table, guiding her body toward this curious secret. Parchment folded around it, string held it in place, but at the top –and here her interest piqued- was an austere, wooden hair comb. Her fingertip traced the carvings lining it, confused and entranced, and she assumed it a mark that this bundle was meant for her. Setting the comb aside, she untied the string and unraveled the parchment to see the white gown, nearly a match to her previous one in its simplicity and construction, but fresh and new.

Her hand stilled uncertainly. _Why would you do this? Is your anger so easily abated?_

Without answers, she abandoned the torn piece of bread to the platter to rid her hands of its burden and took the dress by the shoulders and lifted it out in front of her. So simple, and yet it seemed majestic and enthralling to know he had bought it for her without her coercing him or having to bribe him. It seemed Roman men were quick to drop their shields for the warmth of a woman. Conflicted by the price she paid for this plain show of kindness, she laid it across the edge of a chair and sat beside it, drumming her fingers on the table and staring at it as if it would reveal all the secrets of this general.

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"They risk capture and defeat," Aulus commented, his brow knit in concentration.

"They are desperate for supplies," Maximus agreed. His blue eyes narrowed beneath the heavy sun, wrinkles forming at the edges, pale flicks of lines when his features were relaxed.

The two men considered the watchtower which had called them farther east along the border early in the morning. They arrived as the foreigners were loading their caravans, the bellies of their carts swelling with gluttony. The horses were slow to pull so heavy a load. The men could not flee quickly as they often did, and they engaged the Romans. It was a swift battle, blood dried in the sands, only one man was saved.

"Cassius' plan at work."

"No," Maximus corrected and adjusted his helmet beneath his arm, "they move slower than we anticipated. Why are they waiting? They must be starving by now. And to send so few men? It is arrogant and foolish… They could not have expected to succeed."

"What are you suggesting? That this is a distraction of some sort?"

"I don't know." The general exhaled hotly, agitated with the desert sun and the dry air. He spit the sand from his mouth, but immediately the winds drew more across his face and lips. He was weary of the desert, so arid compared to his home. It had been years since he had seen his city, and without explanation, he yearned to return with a sudden rush like his bones attempting to tear from the flesh. He waited out the wave, centering his focus and strength as it passed, though resolved more than ever to be through of this war. He turned from Aulus and headed toward the camp the soldiers were setting up beside the watchtower. "Come, Aulus. We have someone who will give us answers."

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Arwa picked at the knee of her new dress, distracted by a loose thread, and tugged it aimlessly. Her shoulders slumped with a renewed sense of boredom, and she surveyed the sparse interior of the tent, her prison for an indefinite period of time. The dress fit as poorly as the other, and she adjusted the seams endlessly for that reason as if she might find the exact point where the folds sat perfectly. Her onyx hair was combed through, and it lay shiny and smooth as a horse's mane across her shoulder and pooled in her lap. She ran her fingers through its ends, pleased with how the comb had untangled it despite the amount of time it required and numerous unbecoming curses spent under her breath. Yet even that mindless task was better than sitting at the table and waiting for Maximus to return or the servant to arrive.

It was well into midday by this time. She could assume as much by the shade of light streaming through the entry way, though she was a little confused by the quieter nature of the fort. Usually the high walls echoed the multitude of tasks within them, and inevitably the course of the day reached its peak when the sun was highest. And still, it was surprisingly quiet, which only left her more space to fill with her agitated nerves.

The threshold rustled. Arwa straightened curiously, her heart drumming in her ears, but it was the hunched old servant entering the tent. Her body relaxed in mild disappointment, though the servant hardly seemed to take mind and set a fresh pitcher upon the table. "I worried I would need to wake you. You slept so late into the morning."

"How did you know?" she asked.

She merely smiled in the omniscient way older generations can as if she could pluck wisdom from the air at her desire. "A new dress," she observed of Arwa's state and lifted her brow. "You both have a tendency to break things."

Arwa poorly fought a blush, and the servant surveyed her in a sweeping glance that spoke volumes. Arwa touched her hair, soothed by its silky nature considering its volume that morning as if the dark mane had taken a life of its own. It seemed appropriate given all that they had-

"The proconsul calls you to dine with him this evening," the servant interrupted her thoughts.

She couldn't refrain the frown of contemplation from her features, though she supposed this development would account for Maximus' absence. "Very well," she murmured as though she had the power to accept or decline an invitation from this man. Perhaps she would meet her general and his praetor for dinner and learn what plans had kept Maximus from his tent. Along this train of thought, she considered how irritated he would be for spending his day so tediously and decided she would attempt to be more agreeable in his eyes –her gift to him.

‡ ‡ ‡

"You think your silence will save you!" Aulus spat at their prisoner, and the foreigner's head lolled heavily between his shoulders, weighed down by the blood rushing to his broken nose. Maximus adjusted his stance turning the hilt of the dagger uneasily in his palm as he watched this questioning continue, but the man had yet to reveal anything. Aulus turned toward Maximus, furious and fast losing patience, and shook the man's blood from his knuckles.

The general stepped forward and took his mop of onyx hair into his palm and tore his head back. He surveyed the bloody features, broken nose, swollen eye, split lip as though considering a plot of land. The dark eyes were aware and conscious, staring back at the general without the faintest flicker of fear inside them.

"Their men do not speak Greek or Latin," he commented and released the man's head, letting it hang once more, the blood dripping from his mouth into his lap and the sand beneath him.

"Then what use is he?" Aulus asked angrily and prepared to remove the man's silent head from his shoulders.

Maximus lifted his hand to still his friend's brash behavior. "We will take him to the fort with us… I know of someone who may translate."

‡ ‡ ‡

A male slave escorted her to the Praetorium where Faustus oversaw all his business and had his quarters prepared. The fort's silence was further complicated by its sparse nature. Her eyes searched for the familiar activities and the soldiers bustling about their work, but there was few to met her wandering gaze. Guards traced the walls, acting as sentry to watch for enemies, and those were some of the few Romans she saw. Native slaves and servants scurried around the fort, but where were the other Romans?

Her pace increased with the thought of seeing her general at this dinner. Perhaps he would have too many cups of wine and answer her questions about the fort, or perhaps his gifts were a sign of a shift between them, of a new dawn of understanding. Her optimism flickered, even as she doubted such a turn of events. The slave guided her down the familiar passages and to the dining quarters. As the door opened, music poured from the interior, and she nearly smiled while thinking how easily Faustus was encouraged. But all sense of mirth gave way as she stepped through the doorway, and the blood flooded to her feet where her gut fell as far. Faustus' slave girls anointed the space with lit candles, food, and wine, but as was her curse today, the only Roman man was Faustus who had now turned from his window to greet her with a licentious smile.

_You fool!_ her mind cursed loudly. _How could you think he would be here? How you could think you would be safe!_

Faustus approached her, his heavy toga swinging across his full gut, and its edges were looser as if he had neglectfully dressed after enjoying one of his slave girls. Arwa feared the fabric would unravel before her eyes, and so she considered his glossy gaze, less intoxicated than she could ever recall it. The cold breath of fear pricked the back of her neck as his sweaty palm grazed her arm, and she feigned a demure smile.

"Proconsul," she greeted and gently dipped her chin in a bow. His leer increased at this sight as it always did, and he guided her toward the table, slipping his hand low on her back with his fat fingers massaging lower down the curve of her spine.

"I see my gift pleased you," he said with a chuckle, and his fingers were poised to grasp the rounded flesh of her backside.

She twisted to face him and out of his reach, and his gaze flickered from where his sights had been set now, impatiently, to her eyes. "Your gift?"

"Yes," he answered and smoothed his knuckles across the ends of her hair where they hung across her hip. She shuddered uncontrollably like her hands twitching at her sides. His intentions were anything but subtle.

"It is a treasure," she lied through shaking lips, fighting the urge to tear the wooden comb from her hair now that she knew its true donor, and retreated toward the table where a veritable feast was prepared for them. "I was not aware we would dine alone."

He found this amusing, perhaps reveling in his own genius, as he laughed to himself. "Yes, the troops will be away for some time."

_Where?_ Ideas of Rome, of battle, of a nameless march consumed her head with dizzying force, and she spilled into one of the chairs as uneasily as water across a full cup. Faustus was immediately at her side, twisted so that he could grasp the back of her chair and force the damp heat of his arm against her shoulders. She had come unprepared, foolishly assuming Maximus would be here, and she had not thought of the need to protect herself. She had not thought he would advance upon her so swiftly.

Through numb lips, she wondered, "What will he think?"

"He is far from us," Faustus commented low in his throat and drew his clammy fingers across Arwa's brow. The muscles of her neck flexed with the sudden need to turn her face from him, but she didn't. She closed her eyes to face the calm darkness behind her lids and exhaled shortly through her nose as Faustus' hand fell to her thigh, too high to be innocent. "Let us forget about him."

Her hand swept over his if only to keep it from rising any higher. The thick fingertips stretched toward the valley between her legs, and her grip tightened around his palm, the bones of her slender hand digging into his fatty flesh. Behind her lids, she saw her ripping the wooden comb from her hair and burying it in Faustus' neck. Were the slender pieces strong enough to penetrate his paunchy neck and reach blood? She couldn't risk the chance, and how would she escape after? Razin had not come for her as he promised. She was alone. Her teeth gritted, and her eyelashes flickered open to consider the praetor from their corners. His attention was directed toward their joined hands in her lap, flickering hungrily in the candlelight, and she impulsively bent nearer to him. His gaze found her, his stained purple lips puckering in preparation, but she paused before reaching him.

"Let us eat, Proconsul," she said with a deceivingly malleable smile. "We will need our strength for such a long night." The words were acid on her tongue, so bitter and vulgar as they sunk into her ears that she fought the need to vomit them back out once more.

He grinned and chuckled greedily under his breath. "One night?" His eyes flickered in amusement at her naïveté. "We have days before they return."

Her stomach lurched, her breath shuddering as it left her lips, but she retreated to her seat and found her cup of wine on the table. She nearly drowned on the liquid flooding her throat, but it sunk into her blood and eased the tense grip on her gut. Despite the heaviness of her head, she felt she could think more clearly, consider her options and formulate a plan. Her immediate scheme to keep Faustus busy had the desired effect as he busied his fingers with tearing meat from the bone. The grease slathered his hands, and he paused to suck the fat noisily from his thumb. He looked at her in the midst, grinning around the finger in his mouth, and her brow twitched without the faintest notion how her alter-persona would react in such a situation. He reached and found her rounded shoulder, smearing the oil into her skin. She wanted to cut off his fat hands for touching her, but she smiled and looked toward the musicians in the far corner.

The three men pretended not to watch this exchange, but when she found one of their gazes, her eyes offered a silent plea. The man looked away. The others had heavy eyes, unable to look at her and watch this disgusting seduction.

_You are cowards!_ she screamed at them. _You've forgotten your people! You've forgotten your blood!_

"I have a surprise for you," Faustus whispered to her, his voice dangerously low.

"What more can I need?" she asked and nervously licked her lips.

He snorted and clapped his hands. The music stopped, and a slave girl entered the room with a soiled and torn dress revealing her bronze flesh in bits and pieces. Her face was a stoic mask, her eyes hollow, and Arwa's heart stopped while staring at her as an overwhelming sense of her future faced her. The girl was younger than her, barely more than a child but already succumbed an empty shell. Her spirit, her soul, her life had been sucked from her, and all that remained was this beaten corpse. Faustus didn't notice. He grinned excitedly and waved his hand in the air to prompt them to begin some choreographed piece.

The music began once more, trailing lazily and heavily through the air, like the slave's shoulders rolling from her leaden body. The arms extended like serpents in the air as if the musical notes were strings pulling her skeleton into place. Her waist circled, flashing the bone of her hip through a tear in the dress. Her hair fell across her face, and Arwa was grateful to be rid of her slaughtered eyes with their chilling vacancy. Her fingers untangled the knotted rope at her waist, and it fell limply to the floor. The pin at her shoulder was removed next, and she began unraveling the layers from her body. Arwa could look no longer, so furious and so terrified her entire being was trembling. It was more hideous than murder to kill so young and innocent a spirit.

"Watch," he prompted like a child wishing to share a surprise, but Arwa was numb to his commands, having long lost her agreeable nature. Faustus' hand buried in her hair and ripped her head back to look at the naked girl dancing in the empty space. Her slender legs and arms acted separate from her body. Her breasts and hips not yet fully developed and swaying to the beat. "Watch," he growled with that flash of rage she had seen the first time they met. Arwa's hands curled. She wanted to bury her thumbs in his eyes for their lust and gluttony, and they shook with the restraints of her will shattering from around them. All at once, his greasy lips smothered her like he wanted to suck the life from her as well. He kissed her so vigorously, so clumsily, so ravenously. His sweating features smeared across her skin, she could smell the dense oil he had slathered into his skin and the even heavier stench of his body beneath that musk, his mouth tasted of innumerable disgusts as his tongue wormed into her mouth. It thrust too deep, making her choke against him, and his grip in her hair nearly ripped the hair from her scalp.

Her fingers blindly found the knife situated next to his plate of food, and she swept it into her lap, folding it within the waist of her dress in preparation for whatever her tried. It was short and dull. It would take her awhile to saw the fingers from his hand like his more favorite appendage… He'd never love another woman when she was through with him.

He released her, and she coughed loudly as she gasped for air and doubled over her seat. His kiss was deadly, making her too aware of what his seduction would be like. "You could be mine," Faustus offered as if she had any choice in the matter. "I am a benevolent master."

She thought he was a pig who needed to be gutted until his entrails spilled across the table. That grotesque would give her far more satisfaction than this girl's humiliation continuing before them.

Faustus' hand was slithering its way across her shoulders and to her neck, and her body was settling into place for her attack. Her fist curled, ready to pummel into his throat.

"Proconsul," a voice called from the door, and both turned from their separate purposes to consider the man stepping into the space. He eyed the naked girl who had ceased dancing like the music, and a brief flicker of disgust flashed across his features. So not all Roman men were swine. Perhaps he had a daughter of his own.

"What do you want?" Faustus growled angrily.

"A messenger has arrived with word from the border."

"I'll hear his news in the morning. Can't you see I'm preoccupied!"

"I wouldn't have interrupted you were it not of utmost importance," the man assured him.

Faustus grumbled under his breath, but his hand released Arwa's neck. Such a simple gesture spoke volumes, and her muscles relaxed their iron grip from her bones. Her fate was evaded for the night.

"Call Cassius and Hadrien as well."

"They are on their way already."

"I see…" Faustus settled angrily in his chair and arranged his robes around the growing excitement between his legs. Arwa had not noticed it before, and her lips curled in disgust. "Leave me!" he commanded and gestured for the entertainers to disappear. The girl gathered her clothes in her arms, wrapping her dress around her as she hurried into the corridor, the musicians after her, and Arwa stood to follow.

His meaty hand caught her wrist, and he leered like a dissatisfied wolf, taunted with the prospect of a fresh meal. "We will continue another night…"

"As you wish," she said near a snarl, and Faustus' eyes lit up to hear this tone from her. He enjoyed a rough companion in his bed: he enjoyed a challenge. He would break her until the tears ran down her cheeks and she begged him for mercy. Little did he know the woman he was setting his sight on.

Arwa could not march from the room quickly enough. The slave waiting to escort her scrambled to keep pace, but she could not care who surrounded her. Her thoughts were too tangled and unyielding for her to notice another's presence. She wasn't even aware that she pushed past Hadrien in the entryway and forced the general back a few paces to allow her space. His tongue curled with a curse poised to cut her down, but he was distracted by the fire in her eyes and the slave scurrying to keep pace with her long strides. She swept past him like a furious desert wind, and his brow knit uncertainly while watching her head toward Maximus' tent. Without a word, he turned and entered the Praetorium.

By the time Arwa reached the tent, she was uncontrollable. She tore the wooden comb from her hair, threw it into the dirt, and drove her heel down on it again and again until the comb had broken into splintered pieces. She was furious that she had been unprepared. It was a sign that her instincts were not as sharp as usual. She was lured into the safety this general presented her. Their night together had numbed her wounds, made her forgetful of her purpose, and blinded her to reason. She had walked into Faustus' sweaty hands without thinking. Had the messenger not interrupted them, she would be kneeling at Faustus' feet or captured while fleeing from the fort covered in the Praetor's blood. She thrust through the partition and into the private quarters precisely as barren and untouched as when she awoke that morning. She had the chilling realization that this was the sort of scene she would face if Maximus were injured, or worse killed.

She rushed to the wash table and wet the linen rag with fresh water. Ignoring her shaking hands, she rubbed her lips until the skin began peeling away, then her cheeks, her shoulder, and her neck. Anywhere he had touched her, she scrubbed vigorously, but she could smell his odor lingering on her. It sent a tremor down her spine. His fatty lips on hers, his slimy tongue probing her mouth… She shook her head unconsciously and slid beneath the sheets and into the bed without removing her dress or her sandals like a woman ready and waiting to run. As she settled into the familiar mattress, his scent surrounded her, a smell she had never noticed before. It was stronger at his pillow where his head had lain when they finally allowed sleep to overcome them, and she unrolled the knife from her waist and tucked it beneath the pillow. Her nervous fingers were soothed to have the blade beneath them, and her head was heavy atop his pillow, burying her face deeper into the smell.

She felt blindsided by the lack of him. No matter her attempts to evade it, she had grown accustomed to him, dependent even. It made her furious. It made her terrified. It made her worry. _What if he doesn't come back?_ She dug her shoulder stubbornly into the mattress as if she could burrow her way beneath the sheets and ignore this line of questioning and the fear it strummed inside of her.

_He's a strong soldiers… He'll return_. Her eyes flickered open, too aware of Faustus' presence in his quarters, the lingering Romans guarding the fort, the wolves at her door. Any one of them could take her however they liked, wherever, whenever. _But when will he return?_ her mind pressed anxiously.

Sleep barely touched her that night, and when it did, it was fitful and full of nightmares.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hey dolls! So the plot with Faustus thickens, hm? I swear I write these scenes with him, and I end up pacing anxiously cause I badly want Arwa to stab him in the face...

Thank you to Miss Lynxx, KingofTruands, and klandgraf2007 for the reviews! :)

Lynxx: OMG such a long review! I felt so spoiled reading it :) Yes, Arwa does have something big planned. She hinted at it in this last passage without explicitly stating it. I'm a sucker for drawing out suspense hehe I'm sure you'll feel similarly disgusted by Faustus' advances in this chapter... Ew. I'm glad you enjoyed the action scenes! I love including those, and I thought it would be interesting to give Maximus and Arwa a rematch not to mention I thought it made perfect sense, oddly, as a segue way into their love making. Because they're so tangled up in this love/hate thing... HAHA you wanted to be her? Oh that's the best compliment! I fully encourage you imaging yourself in her place haha It's actually getting really hard in my head to get them past their stubbornness and together. I thought this chapter would be good for Arwa's evolution at least with her realizing that she doesn't want to be alone -that she kinda needs Maximus no matter how much she hates admitting it and that without him she doesn't know what would happen to her. But of course she's not easily subdued so you'll see what happens next chapter :) I have something a little evil planned... Thanks so much for the review, and adding this to your favorites'! Ah you spoil me, Miss. I hope you enjoyed this chapter xoxo

King: Hahaha your reviews always make me laugh. My friend saw what you said about what did she get herself into, and my friend was like, "Uh... awesome sex" haha But I can see where you're coming from totally. I'm glad you liked the duel between Maximus and Arwa. I'll have to see if I can work something similar into the next chapters, maybe? Thanks for the review, and I hope you liked this chapter :D xoxo By the way, sorry... I just realized I kept spelling your name wrong: Traunds rather than Truands :/

klandgraf: Shut up you old ghost hahaha I was so surprised when I got another review on the chapter, and then when I saw it was you, I was like OMG WTF? haha I'm so happy to hear from you again, and I can't believe you're reading another story. Jesus, I figured after Girl in the War, you'd be like screw this Nola chick and her verbose and ridiculously long and tangled stories BUT I'm so happy that you're following. I'm glad you like this. I was joking that this is "such" a departure from Girl in the War (sarcasm intended), but actually... it really is turning out differently. I was afraid Hector and Myrina were stuck in my head, and I wouldn't be able to keep them from this story. But I think Maximus and Arwa are quite different which is fun. Ah, I'm ranting. Thanks so much for the review and continued support, doll, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! xoxo


	10. One Man's Trophy

Chapter 10  
>"One Man's Trophy"<p>

In two days' time, the Roman soldiers returned from the border. Their faces were weary and resigned, a clue that they claimed no significant victory, but they seemed pleased to return to the fort which they had adopted as a home away from home for the time being. Arwa pulled aside the canvas flap of the tent and watched their procession through the streets as they deposited their arms, unloaded their carts, and dispersed to their barracks. Amidst this organized chaos, her mahogany eyes searched out his tall silhouette shifting through the lines and toward his tent. Yet, he was nowhere to be seen. She fought to swallow her heart down into her chest, but it stubbornly lodged in her throat to ask, _Was he injured? Was he killed?_ Her breaths were agitated and nervous, and she nearly fled when she saw Faustus' slave weaving his way through the Roman soldiers and toward her tent. Even across this distance, she felt their eyes engage, and she stiffened as if prepared for battle. _No… _

Since that horrible night where she almost fell victim to his advances, Faustus kept his distance. She could only assume it a divine intervention or at least a stroke of good fortune on her part. Perhaps he was busied with his affairs, or had received word the soldiers would return soon. She doubted he wanted to be caught with her in his chambers when Maximus rode through the gates, fresh from battle. Though Faustus assured her the general was of no concern, she remembered Maximus' fury when he discovered her state the first night they met. For all intents and purposes, she was his property, and as she had well seen, Romans fought for what was theirs and did not believe in the virtues of sharing. Though she still went to bed each night fully dressed and holding tight to the knife beneath her pillow, she reserved hope that Maximus would reappear at a moment's notice and shield her from the praetor and his insatiable appetite. It was his moment of glory when he could part the sea of soldiers and approach her, but for all that she knew, he had faded into nothing like smoke from a snuffed flame.

Bags were heavy at the base of her eyes, her mind lethargic from her fitful sleep, and when the slave drew nearer, she realized she hadn't her blade on her. She looked toward the bed where the knife was hidden and wondered if she had enough time to retrieve it and hide it in her dress.

"You are called, girl," the man said, and her jaw tightened to hear her addressed this way. By the Romans, she expected no better from their brutish manners, but her own people? It was a far more biting insult.

Unarmed and unprotected, she lied, "I cannot. He told me I'm not to leave the tent."

This visibly confused the slave as she had anticipated, and she glanced past his head to the swarm of Roman soldiers, pulsing and shifting all through the camp. Where was he? What if he were dead, and Faustus sought to finally claim her for himself? Her hairs pricked with the shock of anxiety shuddering through her bones.

"The Roman? Your keeper?" he clarified, and she saw the wheels of his mind rolling slowly to understand this news.

There was a time she abhorred the title, refused to answer to it, but if only to be rid of this man, she said, "Yes."

His dirty features burrowed in deep thought, and he scratched his knotted hair. "He calls for you. He wishes you to meet him in the Quaestorium."

Considering her admission moments prior, she assumed a stoic face like her chin lifted parallel to the ground, but his ambiguity caught her in its tangled web and made her drop her guard. "General Meridius?"

He nodded his head in exasperation and motioned across the fort. "Yes, yes. Your master! He sent me to bring you."

Her lips parted as her tongue curled for a response, and she fought away a wave of elation at this news. He was alive. He was here. He was calling her. Her eyes lit like she suddenly discovered there was steady ground beneath her toes, but she kept her tone measured, bored even as she rejoined, "Very well... Take me to him."

The slave grumbled irritably beneath his breath and set off into the throngs of soldiers without bothering to see if she followed. Similarly vexed, Arwa marched after him, picking up the edge of her dress to be sure she didn't stumble as she quickened her pace to match that of the slave. The soldiers carelessly brushed past her, some so rough they sent her staggering off her path, and one wandering hand even found her backside as she struggled to part their brawny bodies and slip past them. At such a prick of pain and humiliation, she spun on her heel to face the culprit, but amid the sea of soldiers, it was impossible to tell. She grimaced and rushed to keep up with the slave who had already reached the crossroads of the Via Principalis and the Via Praetoria. The Praetorium was on their right, and her heart stilled under an icy chill as her sights fell across it; but the slave led them left to a large stone and wood building where the Romans stored their grain and meats. Inside, the air was thick with the hearty smell of grains, and it gave the shaded atmosphere a sweeter taste. The slave guided them past the stores of food, which Arwa couldn't help thinking would feed her people for months, and into an area in the back of the building where a wall interrupted their advance. A guard stood in their path with his hand rested comfortably on his sword, and he glanced from the slave to Arwa.

He rolled his jaw lazily and knocked on the door behind him. "He returned with the girl," he announced and jerked open the bolt on the exterior.

The door swung open, and his towering frame stood in the threshold. His blue eyes fell to her, electrifying her when their gazes met. Never had she imagined herself capable of finding pleasure in his presence, but some impossible weight fell from her shoulders simply by proximity. He appeared unaffected which didn't surprise her and merely stepped into the dark room while calling over his shoulder, "Come."

The slave moved ahead of her, but the guard pushed his chest roughly, sending him stumbling back a few paces. "Not you," he growled impatiently. "The girl." She had hesitated mid-stride behind the slave, but now she stepped around him and slid past the guard and into the heavily shaded room. The air was denser here and underlined by some mysterious stench, and only a few torches had been lit along the walls. Her rush of happiness was short-lived as she faced the cramped quarters. Chains and shackles lined the walls with the occasional man imprisoned in their grasp, one so emaciated in the back corner that Arwa could not fathom how he drew the strength to breathe. Each was confined by the reach of the heavy chains so that they sat amid or nearby their own excrement, and at this realization, she held her breath. In the center of the room, chains attached to a hook in the ceiling, and a man was suspended cruelly from his wrists, his body hanging slack over his toes. Disgust and venom flooded her being. She realized why she was called. She would have preferred Maximus slaughtered and his handsome head presented to her on a platter at Faustus' table.

Her attention had been distracted so that she noticed much later the other soldier and Faustus lingering nearby. The praetor's stench matched the smell of the quarters, and she gritted her teeth with her hands curling at her sides when he leered at her. The shadows sunk in the crevices of his sweating features giving his face a morbid illusion that seemed more fitting of his true self. He should be strung up. He was the true animal.

"Ask him who he is," Maximus spoke up, his rough voice cutting through her violent thoughts and returning her attention to the man in the center of the room.

Her mouth settled into a grimace of distaste as she stepped closer to the prisoner and examined his torn and bloodied clothes. "I know who he is," she replied, and his head swayed beneath his shoulders as if gaining enough momentum and strength to turn and peer at her.

"He is one of yours?"

"No…" His beaten face made him impossible to identify, but she reached and touched the ivory crest hanging from his neck and chiseled with their emblem. "He is of the Hawazan tribe." One of Malik's men. Her gut turned as she recalled her last encounter with her betrothed and considered the lies this man had been told about her.

"Ask him why they attacked-"

"You waste your breath," Arwa interrupted. "He will tell you nothing."

"Ask him," Maximus pressed with a warning edge to his tone, and she turned toward him donning a bitter, sardonic smile.

"He will not speak to me."

The general stepped forward, taking the man by his hair and pulling his head up to face them both. A low groan emitted from the man's throat, interrupted as he choked on the blood coating his mouth. His swollen eyes parted to stare at her, as dark as night and swarming with hate. They drove guilt like a nail through her heart.

"Ask him."

"Why did you attack the border?" she translated in her own language. It was water across her tongue, so natural and smooth and clear. Immediately, she hated Greek.

His chest heaved with the effort to breathe in his position, and through an exhausted exhale, he answered, "Traitor…"

Her jaw trembled uncertainly, the one word unlocking flashes of the council, and she gritted her teeth to still her uneasy shuddering.

"What did he say?" Maximus prompted from her side. His voice sounded so rough and coarse in that stony language.

Her tongue traced the back of her teeth, and with a stiff breath, she answered, "He called me a traitor."

Maximus released his head only to pummel into the man's face. There was a crack that sent her toes curling and the unforgettable sound of wet flesh yielding beneath a hard fist. The chain creaked noisily as his body swayed back and forth, and Maximus grabbed a handful of his hair and held his face toward Arwa. One eye had disappeared, and her throat jerked.

"I need a better response," Maximus said icily. Faustus was tracing his fatty lips with his thumb, perhaps dreaming of his innocent slave girl waiting in his quarters, and maybe even aroused by the violence taking place before him. Arwa felt an overwhelming sensation that she would be sick.

"Say something," Arwa whispered to the man, unable to keep the desperate staccato from her tone. "Anything. You don't need to die."

His voice was hoarse and wheezing with pain as he answered, "Traitor."

Maximus recognized the word without Arwa's translation and buried his fist into the man's ribs. The chains creaked, his body swung limply, the groan of pain faded into the stained air.

The lieutenant had lost his patience, and he unsheathed his dagger and told Arwa, "If he does not wish to speak, tell him I will cut out his tongue and let him choke on his own blood."

Her hands were shaking at her sides if only because she knew it was not an idle threat, but she felt impotent, stripped of her power in any sense, completely useless to save this man's life. "He needs water," she said vainly to buy the man a few more breaths of life. Her gaze flickered to Maximus who had abandoned the man to the care of his colleague and rubbed his knuckles idly, smearing the blood across his hands without seeming to recognize it.

The lieutenant chuckled and called out, "Guard! Bring me my flask!"

The door opened, and the guard entered with a swollen flask in hand. The lieutenant placed it to the man's lips and poured a thick stream down his throat. The man choked on the endless deluge, spitting water from the edge of his lips, struggling to breathe through his broken nose, and without thinking, Arwa rushed forward and knocked the flask from the lieutenant's hands. It fell to the floor, spilling the rest of its contents into the dirt, and as quickly, the back of his hand collided with her face and sent her staggering backward with a rush of pain to feed her fury.

Her body jerked to advance toward him, but iron hands gripped her elbows and held her in place. She heard his command whispered under his breath, "Stay."

Her lips were quivering as she charged, "You won't give him the chance to speak! Let him speak!"

"He has had enough chances," the lieutenant snarled and buried his dagger between the man's ribs. He was still choking the water from his lungs when his body froze.

His lone eye centered on Arwa's terror stricken face, and she whispered, "I am sorry." Royalty never apologized. It was a sign of weakness as her father often reminded her, but she was dizzy with regret and sorrow if she could only tell one man. "May Hubal forgive me and welcome you in the afterlife."

He was silent, and she thanked him for that. He assumed a greater purpose as a liaison between her people and herself, and in his eye was a brief moment of understanding. She was not a traitor. She was mortal and flawed and living, and his death felt like a sacrifice. The lieutenant grew impatient with this means of extermination, and she heard the man groan as the Roman wrestled apart his jaw. Arwa turned her head away, clenching her eyes closed, realizing she was too weak for this sight. Her whole body was trembling, and she tried to tear herself from Maximus' hands to get away from this space. He was screaming in agony, the blood gurgling in his throat, his voice becoming mute when she doubled over and vomited.

‡ ‡ ‡

By nightfall, the men surrounded Maximus' table as they played an amiable game of dice. Bets were called, numbers claimed, and when the die settled, they were swept in howls of regret or elation. Their cries were hollow in her ears. They felt leagues away from her, and she filled Aulus' cup over his shoulder while staring at Maximus' vexed features. He had lost –again. It seemed dice was not his game. He held up his empty cup for her to fill but did not so much as glance at her while she did so. Purposefully, she missed his cup, spilling some wine onto his tunic, and he jerked away from the table to avoid the stream. His blue eyes snapped toward her, and her face settled unapologetically. His gaze nearly roared with frustration, and she set the vessel by his cup as if to say, "Fill it yourself." Then, dismissively, she turned from him and strode toward her place at the stool situated not far from the table. The men's eyes followed with varying degrees of amusement, all but Maximus.

"Luck is not with you tonight," Hadrien commented and donned an omniscient grin.

Maximus leaned back neglectfully in his chair and swept his hand toward the table. "Again."

"Are you sure?" Casca asked and rolled one of the die between this thumb and forefinger. His gloating air practically circled him like thick smog from his numerous wins. "You're already in 40 sesterces, my friend."

The edges of Maximus' mouth flickered briefly as he grumbled, "What's another 2?"

"You're an arrogant fool, Meridius, but your money is just as bronze." The table laughed, and the game continued several more turns, each one lost by Maximus. Their amusement ran out with the wine which left them to sit and tally their winnings. Casca was kind enough to subtract the two games Maximus had won early in the night from his total, and the general sent Lepidus an exhausted look. The other man smiled sympathetically as he tapped the wood near Casca.

"Tell me what I owe you and be quick about it… No man lingers where he shits."

Casca grinned and declared, "38 sesterces."

Lepidus winced and shook his head while finding his coins and thumbing through the amount. "9 denarii. Ask for another, and I'll cut off your greedy hand." He stood and clapped Maximus heartily on the shoulder as he passed his chair. "I do not envy you, my friend… The man's stealing from you in your own home!"

Lepidus deflected Casca's empty cup and laughed as it clattered across the ground. "Look at your poor aim, you drunk bastard! Can you even be trusted to settle the accounts properly?"

"I'm always sober when it comes to money," Casca assured him with a charming smile.

"Only when it's in your favor," Lepidus countered. "Otherwise you suddenly forget basic arithmetic."

"I'm mortal as any man." Casca finished the calculations in his drunken head, and his gaze turned to Maximus. "Are you prepared, Meridius?"

The general lifted his brow and warned, "Be aware this will determine the course of our association. I've heard you look to follow after your father and become a commanding officer…"

"That is low. Even for you, Meridius."

He rubbed roughly at his features, knowing the threat was hollow, and commanded, "Name my debt, Casca!"

"50 sesterces."

"Stealing the bread from my table…" Maximus murmured beneath his breath while shaking his head.

"It might serve you will," Casca said ironically and tore off a piece of bread from the platter on the table. "Have you put on a bit of weight?"

"You're a greedy bastard!" Maximus charged, and the man laughed as if it were a compliment. Arwa filled Casca's cup with wine from over his shoulder without spilling a single drop, and Maximus' features fell with a sudden wave of irritation. Her eyes flashed toward him, their dark depths fiery with laughter at his loss, and he discarded any remaining sense of patience toward this woman.

"What is she worth to you?"

The laughter evaporated from her eyes as Casca caught her wrist and pulled her into his lap. She writhed against him even as he held her in place and planted a sloppy kiss on her lips, and he wondered, "For how long?" One wrist was freed, and she slapped him across the face and struggled away from his wandering hands. "She's feisty…" Casca commented while rubbing at his cheek and winked over his shoulder at her. The men laughed, but she was absolutely livid.

Maximus brushed past her without even glancing at her and entered into his private quarters, and Arwa's anger surrendered to a bout of anxiety, now well known from her time with Faustus. She refused to return the looks trailing along her body, and she quickly followed after the general through the partition. She could nearly see the annoyance rolling off his broad shoulders, and for once, she regretted provoking him, no matter how much he deserved it. She was angry that he had held her that afternoon while the other soldier killed one of her people. The blood was on his hands, and she was furious that he had dared to place a comforting palm on her lower back when they returned to his tent. Now she was confused and fearful that he would truly send her off to one of his friends to pay a debt. Did she mean so little to him? Had he had his fill of her? Whatever the truth, she couldn't leave this tent. This was where Razin would find her. This was the only place she had come to feel remotely safe in the midst of her world shattering from around her.

Without pausing to consider her actions, she touched his shoulder, and he turned with a heavy frown to face her. She licked her lips and offered in that alluring purr she had mastered, "Leave the games to lesser men, General. Your victories are in battle, and your trophy far greater than riches…" Her eyes searched his blue depths for a sign that her charming words met their mark. She stepped closer to him, her breasts nearly grazing his chest, as she finished, "Me."

Finally, his features flickered with intrigue, and she smiled candidly as if they were sharing a secret. He stepped from her and sat comfortably on the bed. After sipping from his cup, he considered her and prompted, "Show me my prize."

Her smile fell as she sought to understand the meaning behind his command, and his lips were the ones to curve frankly. Baffled and insulted, she pushed aside the venomous words springing to her tongue and continued her act. Her eyes flickered seductively, timidly, as she suggested, "After they leave-"

"I've no patience for your games," he interrupted without the slightest hint of apology to his face or voice.

The men laughed in the neighboring area, and her attention settled on the partition as she considered the few paces it would take to pass through the threshold. Her heart sprinted inside her chest, and her gaze reluctantly returned him, simultaneously fearful and determined. She couldn't retreat when faced with a challenge. It was a quality her father had praised her for when she was young, saying that her brass and daring would take her far. Little could he know where precisely she would end up –in the arms of his enemy. The left shoulder of her dress slid down her arm, the right followed, as the material fell to reveal of her naked breasts. It sunk around her narrow waist and slid effortlessly across the swell of her hips to settle without a sound around her feet. Her skin tingled as the air circled around her, the blood was rushing through her veins, fueled by her racing heartbeat, and she was certain he could see the uneven breaths shifting through her chest. His blue eyes slid from her face, to her neck, her breasts, her stomach, her hips, and down all the way to her feet while he casually sipped at his wine. When his gaze returned to her face, he smiled with a fresh gauntlet, and his fingers flicked for her to approach him.

She inhaled to steady herself, refusing now that she had committed to lose her courage, though she was too painfully aware as her first foot stepped across the threshold of her dress. The white fabric pooling on the floor felt like a mark of her modesty, and she was abandoning it in the dirt. She had never felt more exposed, embarrassed, or stirred than that very moment. Her mahogany eyes were locked with his gaze, and she felt the air sliding across her naked body as her limbs moved to guide her closer to him. Her ears perked up to hear their jeers and laughter in the next room, but she couldn't look away from his eyes. He had caught her somehow, and she felt like his marionette, obeying silently and willingly. Once she reached him, he decided his previous command was not enough.

"Kneel."

Her lips parted, and she frowned deeply that he would ask that of her. His gaze was unwavering neither ashamed nor guilty, and faced with his certainty that she would retreat, her knees found the ground at his feet, her chin lifted defiantly the entire way. Her body was trembling, but it seemed an effect of her heart's beating, nearly breaking through her chest. Her fingers curled beside her naked thighs, and she waited for him to touch her, to kiss her, to tell her to get dressed, anything. Instead, he considered her patiently and swirled the wine in his cup.

"Meridius!" Casca yelled toward the room, and Arwa couldn't contain her flinch. "I thought you were giving her to me, not enjoying her _for_ me!"

The men roared with laughter, and she nearly lost her conviction until she felt his knuckles brushing along her collarbone. Her head jerked to face him once more, and she realized his face stretching toward her own. She stilled, poised for his kiss, but he moved past her lips and toward her ear. He brushed the hair across her shoulder, his stubble from his time away pricked at her cheek, and he murmured in her ear, "I am not a man to be charmed." His low baritone scratched her ear and sent an inexplicable tremor down her spine both a rush of excitement and uneasiness that he had found out her game. Considering their proximity, he noticed and smiled that he had discovered a weak spot in her armor. "Never forget you serve me better dead than alive."

The front of his tunic hung slack and barely touch her breasts. Her lips trembled, but she couldn't remain silent. "You have tried twice, General," she suggested in return. "Perhaps you cannot kill me."

He drew away to see her eyes, and she expected him to be furious. Her words sunk into his pores, and she couldn't decipher the swarm of emotion pooling in his liquid blue gaze though, kneeling at his feet and naked, she suddenly felt more powerful.

"Wait for me," he instructed as he stood from her, grabbed his coin bag, and returned to the common area.

She covered herself as the partition separated to fit his broad shoulders and held her breath, fearful that those men would so much as glimpse her so revealed. The material settled behind Maximus, she watched its swaying suspiciously, but with time, she remembered herself and glanced back where her dress had been abandoned. Outside, she could hear him paying his debts with comments about the characteristics of their mothers to raise such gluttonous men, and their chairs moved noisily. Her body shuddered, and all at once, she slid beneath the cover of the sheet on the bed, staring at her dress which seemed too far away to reach. She considered wrapping the sheet around her and retrieving her clothes, but she was distracted by the fading sounds of the men and soft breaths as he snuffed the candles in the common area. The darkness crept closer, and she drew the sheet high beneath her arms and shook her hair over her shoulders. Her modesty came in womanly flashes of coyness and uncertainty. No matter the guise she portrayed, she frankly hadn't the slightest idea what she was doing, and on this front, it seemed the general had her cornered.

He shifted through the material and barely met her gaze before turning toward the half-dressed racks awaiting the remainder of his armor, and she rested against the headboard his bed and picked the dirt from beneath her nails as he undressed to distract herself from the flesh she had touched and kissed days before. Though the silence was pregnant and heavy between them, she was relieved he had not tossed her off to the highest bidder like he threatened.

"If you abhor me so much," he interrupted her thoughts, "why do you wish to stay?" He slipped his tunic over his head, letting it fall neglectfully to the floor as he turned to face her. His eyes were genuine, and so she focused on them.

"Faustus called on me while you were away…"

Without moving, she could sense the air straining around his rigid body. "What did he do?"

The raw nature of his tone sent nerves tossing in her gut, and she considered her hands once more. "He wants me for himself."

"You've encouraged his advances."

"He's easier to please." She heard the words as if they were not her own and couldn't fit them back inside her mouth before they met his ears.

The final candle was extinguished, sending the tent into abrupt darkness, and Arwa squinted her eyes to make out his silhouette against the night. They were too slow to focus, and she stiffened as she felt the mattress sink beside her and his hot breath slip across her shoulder. She turned toward him, unwittingly brushing noses with him, and could finally decipher the strong lines of his face.

"You seek to challenge me," he said, "not please me."

"I have not been raised to love the murderers of my people," she returned stiffly.

He exhaled shortly through his nose, and she realized he was laughing at her. "I don't want your love."

She searched the darkness shrouding them both, at once insulted and exhausted. "What do you want?"

His stillness made her more anxious by effect, their honest conversations so few and far between that she felt flustered and unprepared to face him on bare ground. At length, he decided, "Your trust."

Immediately she felt offended by his grand expectation. "Your hands bear the blood of my kin. You have destroyed my life… I can never trust you."

"You don't have a choice."

She retreated from him, unwilling to let him so much as touch her, even with his gentle breath. She would have preferred he remained a nameless, heartless brute. It was easier to hate him. "How can I trust you when you threaten to kill me or sell me to pay your debts?"

The sheet slid from her body without her consent though she did nothing to stop its measured retreat over her stomach and legs. His large palm found her hip so perfectly that she felt she was the only one affected by darkness, and he drew her lower on the bed as his body shifted above her. Her skin shuddered at the brushes of his naked flesh, her heart racing at his brazen advance. "If I wanted you dead, I would have killed you…" he said in a low tone, and his lips lazily traced the delicate line of her jaw if only to savor how the muscles trembled for him and found her ear. "And you are worth far more than 50 sesterces." She met his kiss, unsure whether she was flattered or insulted, but his lips shattered the impression of Faustus' hands on her. She recognized their yield as if her skin had memories, and she pushed against him, wanting his weight funneled through his mouth, to kiss her deeper, to make her dizzy and to make her forget this day. He pinned her to the bed beneath him, sliding his whole body across her, and she was blinded and heavy like he had stolen the light from her eyes and the rug from beneath her feet.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hey dolls! Happy late Bunny Day! So the boys are back in town... What do you think Maximus will do about Faustus?

Thank you to Miss Lynxx, KingofTruands, and klandgraf2007 for the sweet reviews!

Lynxx: Ah! I'm so happy I could surprise you, even if it wasn't the best surprise in the world haha "His eeky gross fat sausage fingers"... that's a good way to describe him! Faustus is the most disgusting character I've ever created, and I honestly don't know how he ended up that way. I never purposefully thought 'I'm going to make a gross Roman guy' but Faustus just came out of nowhere! I'm glad you like/hate him :) Luckily Arwa wasn't left alone for too long! I couldn't do that to her... So thanks so much for the reivew, lovely, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! xoxo

King: I wish she could've stabbed Faustus too. I think everyone would cheer behind their computers haha Maybe Arwa will have another chance :) Soooo good question. Now Maximus knows what happened. What do you think he'll do about it? Thanks so much for the review, and hope you liked this chapter :D xoxo

klandgraf: That's a good picture of him... That's how I want him to be. Constantly sweating, greasy from oils or food, a comb over, fat, and just all around disgusting. So in some odd way, I'm going to take your disgust with him as a compliment hahaha Thanks for the review, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter too xoxo


	11. An Insult Between Men

Chapter 11  
>"An Insult Between Men"<p>

It was twilight. That pivotal juncture between night and dawn where time took a breath. Sleep dissolved from her mind, allowing her consciousness to seep through her pores and into her body, and gradually she recognized the leaden weight of her limbs and their position tangled within his. Her face tucked upon his chest lay heavy and comfortable, and his naked skin seared her with the fire captured between them. She was drugged with his scent –the mixture of long days, desert sun, and his own flesh. Her eyes blinked to stare at the angles of his bones protruding through the muscle and skin, and a disarming sensation of calm swept through her. He had infiltrated her defenses so seamlessly that she was stunned to discover her own contentment at his side like he had been there all along beneath her blind eyes. In the night, his flesh had been her pillow, his bones her bed frame, and the heat of his skin against her own chased away the chill of the desert night. She had not slept as soundly since he last left, and such a simple change in her body's rhythm left her uneasy. His presence made the days without him feel like a nightmare, something intangible and wispy that she could awake from, as if she had fallen to sleep after their first time together and imagined the dinner with Faustus and the fear that followed. The possibility confused her, the lingering weariness made her mind too lethargic to untangle, and she realized her hand on his chest only when it curled in agitation.

"I don't hate you," his rough voice spoke, echoing within the cavern of his chest and vibrating against her ear and face, as he answered a conversation they had had weeks prior, but one she remembered well. Their exchanges too often exploded into fiery words so that any calm, honest discussion between them was not easily forgotten. She wasn't startled to discover he was awake, only aware that she had somehow, intuitively, known it all along. "Romans… we are bred to conquer."

"I am bred to fight," she answered, unfamiliar with the barren, scratchy tone of her voice waking in her throat.

"And so you have…" Her fingers found the interruption in his skin, that linear incision stretching across his chest given to him days ago, and her eyes followed. Her lips met its smooth edge and traced the healing wound. "You left your mark," he commented as his hands buried in her hair, massaging at her scalp, her neck, shoulders, and back.

"It is healing," she murmured, and her eyes flickered shut indulgently as his callused hands worked against her skin. "There will be nothing left."

He smiled and countered, "Then you should have made it deeper."

"Don't tempt me." Her head teetered atop her chin on his chest as she circled her finger idly in the dark hair trailing down his abdomen, and he yawned loudly, sending her body rocking with the swell of his chest. When he settled once more, she shifted with him so deep and tangled in each other's limbs. Her mind was too heavy a burden for the time, and she laid her head onto him once more, eased by the steady drumming of his heart.

He watched her peaceful features for a moment, stroking the ends of her hair around her lower back, and wondered, "How have you learned Greek?"

"My mother." She licked her lips anxiously as she pictured the woman behind the blacks of her eyes and asked the question which sent tremors to her sleep, "Is she alive?"

He thought of that night when their women were divided among the Romans. Her mother had been given to Cassius, but his slaves were not stolen during the extraction. "I don't know," he admitted earnestly.

"She was from the north –from these lands." She readjusted her body, sliding her leg across his waist to ease the tension in her back. "Her name is Asma, from our word _sama _for sky... She was the daughter of a wealthy merchant and was tutored in all subjects. When she was barely my age, my father stole her." She sat up abruptly, agitated with thoughts of her mother even as his hand traced her naked leg, and she faced the darkness hanging thick inside the tent like that were the fear she was answering. "She taught me all that she could. She understood the world was changing. I would need skills beyond what the tribe could offer."

"Women lead?"

"No," she answered in a soft tone. It was a topic that consumed her thoughts too often, and unconsciously she recounted a worn tale, "There was a time when our ancestor Ayyub al-Sakhtiyani fell ill with a sickness that paralyzed his limbs. Your Emperor was marching on our lands. The cities of the north had fallen. We were to expect that we would be next in line, but al-Sakhtiyani's wife was brave and clever. She gathered her husband's forces under her command and rallied them with a great speech of the power of their courage and spirit. They followed her into battle."

Through the feint light of morning, her eyes shone with admiration and passion, their dark depths abruptly bright and aware, and he was drawn into her tale. "What happened?"

"With her guile, they held back the Roman forces for nearly a month while reinforcements marched from the south. They did not arrive in time. Her forces were ambushed in the next attack. They cut the legs of her camel when she tried to retreat. She called for the men to remain strong, to fight until the end." Her tone seemed at once desperate and resolute though she unraveled the details as if she had told the tale a thousand times. "The Roman general killed her before her men." She looked dismally at her leg where his hand sat heavy, cupping her thigh and tracing his thumb across the wound free of its stitches. "They lost the battle. All the men were slain. Before she was captured, she sent a messenger to intercept the troops marching north and inform them of the battle. He was the only to recount the battle and the feats she accomplished as a woman leading in the stead of her husband… But we do not have her name. It was not written down. It was not passed through the ages."

She grew silent, long enough to concern him, but when he parted his lips to speak, she finished, "My father told me this story when I was a child, young and full of hope. I accepted it as some divine direction –that I should one day be as great as she was, and my name would be remembered."

His palm was warm on her shoulder, sweeping up to brush his knuckle along her jaw, and she caught his hand and opened his fingers to consider the scars and calluses. They were worn, the long fingers slightly swollen from years of use and muscles gained, the palm wrinkled with lines of his life. She traced one with the edge of her nail, wondering about the memories that made up this man, and swiftly his fingers caught her as though the gentle touch tickled him. She smiled briefly, finding any sensitivity on his part amusing, and wondered, "Do you have a wife?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He closed his eyes and angled his head deeper into the pillow as though to dismiss the question, which only intrigued her further. "It doesn't matter," he murmured lazily and released her hand.

"Do you Romans not marry?"

His brow knit with mild irritation, and he grumbled, "Of course we marry."

She pursed her lips in thought and dragged her fingers lightly over his chest, enjoying how the uneven skin felt beneath her tips. "You are a general," she said and glanced about the tent. "You have wealth enough…" Her gaze returned to his features looking increasingly sullen in the growing light, and she continued in a low tone, "You are not unattractive." His eyes flickered open with renewed interest, and she clarified, "For a Roman… Have you no one to arrange a match?"

"Leave it," he commanded brusquely.

One brow arched, and she chewed briefly on her lip before offering, "I was betrothed before you took me." He was silent, but she accepted his lack of input as space to fill the void in conversation though she wasn't sure why she wished to speak with him at all. It eased her anxious spirit to simply release all the words swirling through her mind for weeks. She felt like she had been silent for years. "He was son to the leader of the Hawazan tribe."

He stared at the canopy of the tent, frowning slightly as he considered some train of thought, and at length, he recalled, "The man called you a traitor."

She inhaled all the air that would fit into her lungs only to release it in one, short breath. "I'm not… I am the one who has been betrayed."

"That is why you left," he assumed.

"If I had stayed, they would have imprisoned me and killed me…" Her eyes flickered to his face as she realized she had traded one prison for another, and a rush of guilt flooded her for enjoying his company no matter how briefly.

"Why did you not offer my life to save your own?"

She considered her hand, so small amid the expanse of his barrel chest and etched out by her darker skin tone. "My mother told me Romans were wolves hunting in the night." She bit her tongue for the flash of pain it caused, feeling flustered with its lose nature as she admitted, "But you were kind to me."

Silence plagued them once more, and she regretted speaking so openly as if she had brandished her wounds and asked for another lashing. It left her vulnerable to his attack, and she waited for his forces to swarm her through his negligence and fury. Then, inexplicably, he said, "My father died in battle when I was young… Each man in my line has gone to war since my great-grandfather Quintus Sertorius."

His tone swelled with pride as if often did whenever he spoke of his name or his pedigree, though never had he revealed so much to her despite the few words. Her face lit with interest, and she wonderd, "He was a great warrior?"

"Yes… He was a statesman and a general. All knew him for his strategies and his unyielding bravery." Maximus paused and considered the vacant canopy as though searching through his memories, and she waited expectantly for him to continue. "But most remember him for fighting against Rome."

"He was a Roman," she said, her brow knit in confusion.

"It is complicated," he settled suddenly and looked to her at last with a hollow expression, raw only in its absence. "They know I am his descendent."

"This is why your proconsul speaks to you like you are a servant?"

"Faustus is a fool and an ass." The crass words unlocked her smile, and one corner of his lips pulled into a smirk.

"He claims you have no power to defy him," she suggested if only to provoke his tongue against the praetor she so despised.

Maximus snorted at the thought. "The man has not battled a day in his life. He won't dare to insult me."

"Hasn't he already?"

His blue eyes met her gaze and narrowed subtly. His fingers found her chin, angling her face to catch the light as he inspected her large eyes, slender nose, round lips, fine jaw… "I should call you Helen –for the way men betray each other in your presence."

She frowned in confusion, not understanding the allusion he presented, and the horns were blown to wake the camp and interrupted their exchange. The general slipped from his bed to find his tunic, and Arwa realized the cool embrace of the morning air sweeping around her in his absence. Gradually sounds of the men waking outside infiltrated the peaceful silence inside his tent, and she surrendered the brief understanding shared between them as he began dressing in his armor, like the man she surrendered to the soldier. The comfort in her naked skin waned once she was standing, inexplicably balancing on the front of her feet across the cold ground where the rugs gave way to the dirt outside. She swept her dress from the floor, swiftly stepped into it, and drew it up her body. The weight of his eyes found her back, and she gathered her hair over one shoulder while glancing coyly back at him to feign a courage which failed her. Though his features were stoic as usual, his eyes were warm with amusement at her sudden bout of shyness, and it only encouraged her to feel further inhibited as she slid her arms through the shoulders and settled her dress across her body.

Once clothed, she turned to face him and noticed his attention concentrated on the lacing of his wrist fenders having tangled during their last, abrupt removal. His large hands were not meant for the delicate work of untangling something so intricate, and his patience was too short to attend it much longer before he ripped the leather strips all together. Her slender fingers pushed his hand aside and aptly unwound the snarled leather straps, and she tightened them as she had seen him do each morning and tied off the edges.

Watching her comfortably and knowledgably attend to his armor, he recalled the first time they had ever met though he was not aware of her identity at the time. "Was it your brother's armor?"

With the task completed, she looked at him, momentarily confused by the question, but with her understanding, a sly smile hiked up her lips. "No… It was mine."

A mixture of surprise and doubt contorted his brow, but he addressed his other wrist fender, wordlessly dismissing her to disappear through the partition in search of breakfast. He followed with his shin guards to be attached at the table and found her inspecting one of the fruit from the platter under her intent gaze.

"What do you call this?"

"_Malum_," he answered and frowned when his mind couldn't locate the Greek equivalent. He settled into one of the seats and began lacing his shin guards. At length he remembered, "Apple."

"_Malum_," she repeated instead, similarly fascinated by the Latin word as she was by the foreign fruit. "It is from Rome?"

"I doubt it travelled so far. There are orchards further east of Rome."

"And this?" she asked while plucking the knife from the table as well and brandishing it for him to see.

"A knife," he replied incredulously, and she waved it with an irritated air.

"Yes, but in your language?"

He smiled slightly and recalled, "You said you speak Latin."

"I said I speak very little Latin," she corrected and sliced a wedge from the apple to chew on as she leaned against the table. "It was long ago that my mother taught me, and she would only practice Greek with me."

"_Ferrum_," he said and took the apple from her hand, biting a large chunk from the side and then holding it between his teeth as he finished lacing his left shin guard.

Slightly vexed and disgusted, she tore the apple from his mouth, leaving a large hunk still in his bite. "You Romans have no manners," she commented, and he chuckled to himself while chewing. She eased into the chair beside him and turned the apple to cut off a wedge from the side he had not eaten. While slicing, she caught the smile poised in the edges of her lips and realized the light air between them normally so fraught with tension and a battle of wills. Was it possible for them to share a morning together without her wishing to turn this knife –_ferrum_– on him?

He tore off a piece of bread and stood to leave. Usually he would have departed by this time, but she supposed she had distracted him with their brief language lesson. While turning toward the door, he commented casually, "Be ready come evening… Tonight we dine with Faustus."

Her lips parted with a dissent at her tongue, but she was so genuinely taken aback by the command that he disappeared through the threshold by the time she realized what she wished to say, or do rather –and it involved the blunt knife.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Leave it, Maximus," Hadrien admonished, the wrinkles gathering in his face as he frowned, and the air about him aged instantly.

"If I allow this insult to fester, the infection will spread," the other general mused in a decided tone.

"Faustus is a fool whose fortune comes from a sickly hand. Verus backs him and feeds his gluttony, but all know Verus' power is a podium of sand… In time, he will fall and all those who cling to his robes as well." Hadrien exhaled shortly as he realized that his words were landing on deaf ears. "Besides she is a slave-"

"It is an insult among men," Maximus snapped irritably.

"It is only an insult if you wish to take it as such… Those who fight beside you –these other generals, lieutenants, and officers– all respect you, Meridius. You have nothing to prove that you have not already won through battle."

"Gossip of this affair will spread."

"Rumors follow any man in power, and those who trust them are fools." Maximus did not respond, and at length, Hadrien settled into the seat across from the young general, assessing his brooding air. "It is the woman." Maximus scowled as though offended by such an assumption, but Hadrien wasn't led astray. "She is your slave… Restrict her to your tent and your bed if you so wish."

"Faustus is not the first man to enjoy her behind my back!" the general growled suddenly with a rush of annoyance like the sharp crack of whip, and Hadrien's features grew somber.

"Watch your words, my friend. What you suggest are dangerous charges."

"I would not speak them were I not certain."

"Explain."

"The night she was given me… The guards," he paused to swallow the anger coating the back of his throat, "enjoyed her without my consent."

"She murdered Gaius before all gathered," Hadrien returned with a dismissive shake of his head. "They were impassioned."

"She was not theirs to possess." Despite his efforts to remain calm, his voice subtly quaked as he pressed, "She was untouched."

The other general stiffened abruptly as surprised by that as Maximus had been. "You're certain?"

"I saw the blood, the mess they made… I've forgotten who the barbarians are." Seething, he settled deeper into his seat, eyes flicking irritably across the space. "Should I expect men to stroll into my tent and steal the food from my hands and money from my pockets? …An example must be made."

‡ ‡ ‡

Her heart thundered in her ears, but Maximus seemed deaf to its sprint. His face betrayed no inclination as to the thoughts swarming behind his blue eyes though she religiously checked for the slightest disruption. His calm front was infectious albeit irritating, but she soon discovered that for her fiery nerves, her demeanor was unapologetically controlled. Even as they entered the Praetorium, Maximus with his burly stature guiding her way, her guise did not slip. She was certain of a private affair –of some communication or pact or decision made without her knowledge or consent. She was at once terrified and resigned to accept her fate with a brave face, the one aspect of her life she had any control over. Perhaps Maximus had found a bid worthy of her exchange, or worse, Faustus had discovered the weak point in the general's armor and dug his greasy thumb into the wound for Arwa's release. She fought away a shudder at the latter.

The dining room was crowded with the officers called to join Faustus at his table, and the praetor made no attempt to draw from his seat and welcome those entering. Laziness or drunkenness, Arwa could only surmise. A large, off kilter grin overtook Maximus' features as he greeted his comrades and weaved his way toward the table, and Faustus eyed his approach over the lip of his cup looking insulted that he was not addressed first. At last, the general seemed to remember his proconsul and addressed Faustus with the same warm tone as his friends which made his sharp blue eyes cut all the more dangerously.

"Proconsul," he said as he took the seat to the right of the man and abandoned Arwa to stand uneasily at his side where Faustus could examine the length of her openly and hungrily. "Our men will never win this war if you reward our failures with feasts."

Faustus sneered, all stained teeth and thin lips, as he said, "I bore witness to your failure when questioning the prisoner –even with her tongue at your call." His features shivered with unvoiced thoughts about the use of her tongue, and she had the sensation of her dress melting from her body. "But the other men have brought me no dishonor." Faustus motioned for Arwa to take the seat at his left, and she reticently complied, now faced with the disjunctive picture of her keeper's deceivingly amiable grin and furious eyes across the table. Confused and agitated, she searched his face for the secret it housed.

"And yet you continue to invite me to dine at your table..."

"Fortunately I believe in the power of morale, and I trust you will not fail me again, General."

Maximus subtly bent his head, but it seemed anything but acquiescent. "You are a more forgiving man than I."

The words lingered in the air. Arwa could almost see them snake through Faustus' balding head where they found a raw nerve. Oil crawled into the crease in his brow, and he looked abruptly insulted. Maximus smiled but gazed idly toward the other officers at the table while relaxing back into his seat. The words evaporated, but the effect remained. Faustus features crawled with annoyance, his beady eyes flickering too often toward the general who was now laughing loudly with his comrades, but he found distraction in the companion at his left. When his hand fell onto her upper thigh, she didn't hesitate to readjust her legs, causing the fatty fingers to slip away.

"You are angry I have not called on you…" Faustus mistakenly assumed while sneering with pleasure.

Arwa did not respond though her mahogany eyes pierced his face in a fixed stare.

"I have not forgotten you," he promised, and an uneasy sigh shuddered through his torso and buried between his legs. "You will have your turn, girl." His fingers found her again, digging in deep this time, until she felt the pressure of the bone beneath the layers of sagging flesh. Her teeth gritted, and her tongue curled with the threat.

"Proconsul," he interrupted, and Arwa's attention snapped toward Maximus. Faustus' gaze lagged behind, lethargic to abandon its prey, but his handle on her thigh remained with his thick thumb circling across the fabric and making her skin crawl beneath. "What say you?"

The praetor appeared at once vexed and discomposed by the eyes turned curiously his direction. "Of what?"

"Life at war," Maximus responded and smirked.

Faustus at last released Arwa's leg to grasp his cup and quipped, "I am content to allow your men the glory at battle. I shall keep my seat in the Senate." He sipped from it, feigning an amiable air to dismiss this vein of conversation.

"It is far more comfortable than the pain of a blade," one officer commented, and Faustus' regard was warning when it fell on this man.

"It is good to be Praetor," Maximus agreed. "You remain within the safety of the walls, have the wine and grain at your call, the slaves we gain from battle serve you..."

"Emperors Verus and Aurelius are generous to grant me this position, but like all men, I miss my heart, my soul, my home: Rome."

He lifted his cup, and all men joined their Proconsul with a united "To Rome!"

Arwa sat stiffly in her seat, meeting Maximus' gaze over his lifted cup, and in his blue orbs she caught the briefest flicker of some thought. Before she could chase it, she was distracted by the sweaty palm on her knee once more, pushing back toward her upper thigh and taking the edge of her dress with it. She caught his hand and buried her nails into his fatty flesh. The prick of pain did little to distract his intentions, and rather, his fingers felt greedier trying to force their way higher, deeper into the valley between her legs. He was losing his control.

"Distracted with my slave?"

Faustus nearly growled beneath his breath as he faced the general and said, "Perhaps she entertains me better than your ridiculous conversations."

"I've heard she entertains you regardless of our conversations... You call her from my bed while I am protecting Rome's borders."

"What are you suggesting, Meridius?" he challenged angrily, voice sliding low toward a hiss.

The lethal smile remained since the moment he stepped through the doorway, and he bent closer to Faustus, seeming at ease where the proconsul looked increasingly agitated. "Your desires stretch beyond your reach..."

"My reach extends far past your own, Meridius."

"Do not mistake me for one of your Senators... I am not restricted by the same obligations." Faustus' eyes narrowed, then flicked toward the knife rolling between Maximus' fingers as if understanding fully the threat he presented. Without warning, the knife was buried into the wood of the table, and the Proconsul flinched at the reverberating sound. Furious, his glossy eyes turned on Maximus. The table was silent. Faustus' greasy hand released Arwa a final time and snaked away.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hey lovelies! I apologize for the delay in uploading this, but I've been dealing with a bit of a personal matter as of late. Hopefully this chapter made up my absence :)

Thank you to Miss Lynxx and KingofTraunds for the sweet reviews!

Miss: Lardy sex craving monkey hahaha Omg you kill me with these descriptions of Faustus! I think you do better than me :D Yea Arwa and Maximus' relationship gets more tangled and complicated with time haha but as for Maximus and Faustus shit got real! No dismembering or disemboweling... yet anyway :) Just some fun masculine back and forth haha I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you liked this chapter! xoxo

King: Egads! You're so sweet to say you teared up a little! It was a bit of an intense chapter, and I'm pleased to some degree to see it came across as such. There was definitely a sad discrepancy between what Arwa expected and what in fact happened. SO here is the confrontation between Maximus and Faustus! Is it finished? Hm... we'll see :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter! xoxo


	12. Master of the Horse

Chapter 12  
>"Master of the Horse"<p>

The flame flickered dully, dimming as it sunk lower upon its wick and deeper into the melted wax pooling in the bronze lip. Hours had been spent at this table. The food had long grown cold, empty vessels of wine were piling on the floor, and the fire to their right was reduced to crackling embers. With the heavy darkness encroaching, the men separated, and Hadrien, Aulus, Lepidus, and Casca thrust into the night, oblivious of the fort's dense silence. They were drunk, loud, rambunctious, stumbling and prodding each other with cruel jests.

Maximus chuckled under his breath as he watched them disappear into the darkness, and his attention returned to the inside of the tent when he recognized the subtle clinking of plates and cups against each other. She was balancing the stacked plates against her hip and attempting to tangle the neck of each cup in her fingers to finish her task as swiftly as possible.

"Leave it," he said, and her dark eyes darted toward him. They flashed in uncertainty. Then, without hesitation, she abandoned her load to the table in a loud clatter, but Maximus didn't move to reprimand her. Rather, he sunk into his seat at the table, took two cups, and filled each to the brim with wine, finishing off the last vessel in his tent. He carried one to his lips, and the other was offered to the space beside him. Arwa acquiesced and took the seat and the cup as well. She was exhausted though in mild spirits. The men gathered together were boisterous and full of quick wit, and too many times during the evening she had to hide her smile at their quips toward each other. It was clear the numerous cups of wine had moderated her keeper for Maximus' burly stature was relaxed, his shoulders drooping, his body falling low in his seat.

She sipped at the wine, and the spices nipped at her consciousness even as the alcohol eased into her blood. She thought of the mattress yielding to her bones, and she yearned for the sensation. But she was not afforded such liberty to sleep and wake and carry on freely as she once had. Her actions were to follow his, always, and she considered his slack features for any hint as to his next move. His blue eyes found her over the lip of his cup, maintaining her gaze and admiring how the flickering candlelight sunk into her dark eyes and her caramel skin.

"_Bibe_," he prompted.

She bent across the table to better see his lips, watching them flex intently before she attempted to unravel the word his raspy, rich voice annunciated. Understanding, she lifted her cup and sipped from it.

He smiled slightly and nodded. "You learn quickly."

"I have already learned once," she said once her cup was replaced on the table, and she traced the tip of her finger around her bronze edge. Her head bobbed forward, the only sign thus far that the late hour affected her, and her hair tumbled across her shoulder to pool in her lap. As the night wore on, her accent became thicker, her responses slower, but she persevered. "I wonder if I will forget my native tongue one day as well…"

"Speak for me," he commanded and finished half his cup in a hearty gulp.

She wet her lips and searched the table top for the proper topic and words. There were too many possibilities for her to choose like picking her favorite ruby from a handful of perfect stones. At length, she said, "_in sara't, isra' gamal, wa'in _ع_eše't, i_ع_ša' 'amar_." The words were cool and smooth as water and tasted fresh on her parched tongue. In her language she spoke beautifully and fluidly, and the words sunk into his skin, slow and sweet like honey.

Unable to imitate her artistry, he asked, "What does that mean?"

"It is a saying of my people." She brushed her hair across her shoulder and straightened in her seat. "If you steal, steal a camel," she paused and allowed her finger to trace her cup once more, "and if you love, love someone as beautiful as the moon."

His gaze tangled with her own, complicated by fatigue and wine and the dim light but resolved to see her. "A testament to your people… It must be exhausting living each moment like it were your last."

"Are you Romans so different?"

"Less romantic."

"Yet we are the savages."

He titled his head slightly, listening to the dull scrape of his cup rotating on the wooden table. "What am I to call a woman who bears arms, fights in battle, and speaks like a man?"

"Her name."

He inhaled and chuckled, and she was distracted by the swell of his shoulders and chest to fit the air, making her conscious of the size and breadth.

"What of your Roman women?"

"They are strong, loyal, intelligent –not slaves to their passions."

She smiled, an indulgent flicker of her lips, and looked down at her cup of wine remaining mostly untouched.

"You find the idea amusing?"

"I would not think such a woman could appeal to you," she clarified.

"Explain."

Still smiling, she considered him and suggested, "You speak of a woman who remains within your home, commands the servants, is a loyal wife, a good mother, and has no greater desire than to satisfy you?"

"A Roman woman."

"You would be bored by one."

"I would be pleased by one," he corrected. "It is the ideal wife."

"It is not… A wife should be loyal and support her husband and raise his children, yes, but she should also challenge him, give him counsel, and fill him with passion."

"Was your betrothed the sort of man to appreciate your passion?"

The question unleashed a sudden agitation to her body. Her shoulders were stiff, her eyes hard, and her fingers irritably traced the lines etched into her cup. Thinking of Malik, she looked at the table and pictured their last encounter. "He was a coward."

"Because he wished for a passive wife-"

"Because he betrayed me –like the others!" she snapped. "When my father died, I was to follow. I was to lead, and yet my uncle assumed control in his greed and Malik would not stand by me." The edges of her mouth subtly quaked, and her breath was heated through her nostrils. "He was a coward."

"He was a man. Did you expect more?"

"Yes… I have seen men who are not threatened by a woman's power."

"It is not a threat as it is an insult."

"You speak of your character?"

"Of yours," he corrected. "You challenge those whose power rivals your own. You speak of equality, but you have been raised arrogant of your authority. You are the one who is threatened." Seeing the flames reflected in the glossy surface of her eyes, he smiled. "Even now you wish to cut out my tongue for speaking against you."

"As would any woman."

"Roman women do not handle blades."

"They should learn," she challenged, "to protect from Roman men." He smirked and took another gulp of his wine, leaving her to watch the muscles of his strong neck contract. She wet her lips and continued, "If Roman women were such treasures, would you not have a wife in place of me?"

He replaced his cup and considered the lone candle on the table, its flame dying with each word they exchanged. "For long, my family has been soldiers of Rome."

"Since your ancestor, the warrior," she recalled, but his gaze was unfocused, oblivious to her. "Why did he fight Rome?"

"It is complicated," he said in the same dismissive tone as the first time he brought up his heritage.

"I can follow."

Maximus did not seem to hear her and all at once tipped his head back and finished his cup of wine. Eyes stinging from the bite of the dry wine, his nostrils flared, and he said, "Quintus Sertorius was not born a man of noble blood. He gathered approval for his skills as an orator and jurist and committed to the military late in his life."

"But he is remembered…" she encouraged softly.

"His conquests seemed unending. Where other generals and officers failed, he was always the more cunning and able to wile victory –no matter the cost, even when it was one of his eyes." He smirked slightly and mussed his short, black curls with a carless hand, but he needed no further spur from her to continue. "His fame preceded him in Rome, and he sought a position within the government. But a man, Lucius Cornellius Sulla, impeded him…. The hypocrisy, the treachery, the shameless bribery. He swiftly lost his taste for Roman politics." He paused again, this time only to probe the darkness with his gaze, and she was sure he was searching through his own recollection of the details.

"This is why he fought Rome?" she asked.

"After his failure in the senate, he retreated to Hispania, my home, and became proconsul." He smiled. "Rome would not recognize him, but they didn't need to. He commanded an army. He could take the title if he wished. But when he attempted to take Hispania for himself as well, the Roman army was sent."

"And he fought them."

He nodded. "He was forced to retreat again to Mauretania where he captured Tingis. His military success against Rome won him the favor of the people, and they offered him position as their general. They called him the 'new Hannibal,' and he trained, mobilized, and assembled his forces until he defeated the Roman army. He ruled Hispania for 6 years."

"What became of him?"

"What becomes of every man who reaches such power: He was assassinated by his own men," Maximus said solemnly and seemed sobered by this ending.

"He was a great warrior," she said.

"Yes…" His gaze strayed to see Arwa, and he was drawn by the flickering of esteem in her eyes. "My family has fought for Rome since, repaying our debt for his disloyalty."

"No," she disagreed, "you fight for his memory. His victory is not shameful. You should be proud."

He drew her hair from her face, lazily with one hand, but the slight flickering of her eyes like an electricity of his touch prompted him to stretch forward and examine the depth of her eyes. Unmoving under his touch, she brazenly pushed past the siege of his hands until the tip of her nose barely brushed his as if the same power drew her to him as did him to her. His fingers tangled in her long hair, gently pulling to angle her head back where he could rest the weight of his brow against her. Her eyes remained open, staring wide and taken in by the blue. Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth, able to taste the last sweetness of the wine, and he molded the indentions of her face with his own.

The candle flickered out and left them in darkness.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Meridius," Cassius said as the general ducked through the doorway and found the table littered with his colleagues.

"Commander."

His blue gaze wandered across the familiar faces and lingered on the one stranger among them. By the ornamental borders on his toga, Maximus gained knowledge enough about his status though little of his character. His blonde curls were cropped close to his head, still tightly knit for the wrinkles surrounding his eyes and mouth. Maximus took the available seat pushed ajar by Hadrien's foot and nodded to his friend as he sat. There was little discussion and only in low tones, cups of wine were exchanged for water, and he exhaled as he recognized the somber air lingering about the table. The final officers entered the room, avoiding their commander's stiff glare, and the meeting was begun.

"Men," Cassius spoke up in his booming tone, "Considering our extended stay in these lands, Emperor Verus has taken greater interest in our progress… He sends his Magister Equitum, Seneca Bruccius, to hear our plans."

Appropriately, gazes turned to consider their latest guest, but he took his time filling the silence extended respectfully for him.

"Your commander speaks of progress," he began at length, "but I am here because there has been none. I see men, well-fed, well-rested, lazy, and bleeding Rome's treasury dry. What I do not see are the signs of a war at its end." His lips curled subtly as though disgusted by their very faces and the shame it brought him. "Every officer, every general is accounted for. The soldiers have filled every barrack. And so…" he spoke grandly while leaning back in his chair, "I'm left to wonder who is fighting this war." He lifted his eyebrow impatiently, searching the silent faces for an answer, and all at once he thrust forward and slammed his fist onto the table, sending several cups onto their sides. "Who!"

"We cannot empty the desert to discover them," Cassius answered for his men. "They utilize their terrain. They hide."

"Those guilty, those cowards, those uncivilized men will hide, but I was told you boast one of the best trackers of the Roman army. Clearly I was misled…"

"The desert makes it impossible to track them," Hadrien spoke up in defense of his title. "Constantly the winds are blowing to destroy whatever remains."

"Have you employed one of their natives? You have slaves," he said, "from their tribes. Why not capitalize on their knowledge?"

"These tribes, they do not speak any civilized tongue," Maximus contributed.

"You are Romans!" he barked with a deep frown to contort his features. "What men has Rome borne to be so slack and negligent of their duties?"

"We have exercised every tactic," Cassius said. "What has become clear to us is that we cannot blindly charge into the desert and expect victory."

Seneca appeared aghast at this news. "And your alternative is to remain within the fort and grow fat on Rome's salary?"

Cassius' teeth ground in evident agitation. "Our alternative was patience! These men live within the desert where the gods have forsaken them –no water, no food, no resources. They survive off the bounty they steal from our territories. We have what they need. They will come to us!"

"Have you dispersed troops throughout the posts?" he asked condescendingly, knowing the answer to the question already.

"Rome has already sent its sons to fill these watchtowers and forts."

"If it were so simple, Commander, do you not think Rome would have squashed these vermin when Trajan was emperor!"

"There is no other option!"

"There is!" Seneca snarled and stood to his feet. "And that is why I have been sent. There is another way, and I will find it."

His furious gaze flickered across the stern faces of the men facing him but was distracted by the messenger lingering in the doorway.

"What is it?" he asked sharply.

"I bring news from Azrou," the man answered.

"Spit it out!"

"The town was sacked. The wine, oil, grains… All that they could carry."

Maximus was more aware of Cassius' falling expression, his frustration crawling into the deep wrinkles on his face, and his black eyes, furious and insulted, met Maximus' gaze.

"What of the Roman soldiers who protected the city?" Seneca pressed.

"Slain or fled."

"Your commander's plan at work," he announced and shook his head. "Your failures are not only an insult to Emperor Verus' generosity but to your people and your country! Have you no shame? Have you no loyalty?"

"Nearly seven months we have been in this desert," Maximus answered, unable to hide the anger from his tone. "You question our loyalty? My men have bled for Rome's borders!"

"Perhaps this war would be finished had they done more than bled, General," Seneca responded severely.

"They are a dying breed," Cassius interrupted. "They cling to life, to the final breaths, but they are dying. We should shrink our rations. Keep the oil and grains and meats stored in the forts. The townspeople can take only what they need for a week at a time."

Finally, Seneca nodded. "Why has this not already been enacted?" None had an answer, but he settled into his seat with his thick toga spilling over the sides.

"They will become more desperate," Hadrien agreed. "They will need to attack us where we can capture them. They have avoided the forts for a reason… But we must tighten the rope around their necks."

Seneca rolled the heavy ring of his station on his finger, his lips subtly moving with thought, and he decided, "This is not enough."

Cassius' shoulders fell with a heavy exhale only to tighten in frustration once more. Through his teeth, he asked, "What would you have us do that we have not already done?"

"It is not a matter of what you have done but how… I wish to see these enduring savages."

"You intend to enter the desert?" Cassius clarified, his voice dripping in disbelief.

"Yes. I gained my position at Emperor Verus' side for my tactics in battle… By your faces, I see my reputation has already been forgotten." His nose twitched, and he swiped one of the cups from the table. "We will find these tribes, and unlike you, officers, I will not allow them to escape."

Seneca was considering the soldiers seated across from him while Cassius shook his head at the man's side. He had been insulted, belittled, and manipulated, and the blood was flooding his face and ready to tumble from his lips.

"What will you need?" Maximus asked before his commander could speak.

Seneca smiled, one corner of his mouth drawing into an off center grin. "Men to accompany me and cut down the tribes. You, Meridius. You offer your company?"

A rush of agitation surged his gut and spilled up the back of his throat. Stiffly, he nodded his head.

"And your scouts, General," he said while turning to Hadrien.

"They will track those bastards," the general promised near a growl.

The sting remained. They had each been whipped, and like men, they rose at the chance of regaining their name and their manhood.

"Commander?" Seneca continued, looking increasingly pleased as though he were inviting members to a gathering rather than to battle.

"I will march," he growled irritably, and Seneca smiled.

"Then it is settled. Alert your men… We march at dawn."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hi my lovelies! A chapter of mostly dialogue? From _me_? Weird, I know. I would also like to reiterate a disclaimer I gave a while ago: I do not speak Arabic, nor Latin. So if any of you do and wish to correct my translations, please feel free :)

Thank you to Miss Lynxx, Syrena Swift, and klandgraf2007 for the sweet reviews!

Lynxx: Missy! You're so sweet :) My personal stuff turned out ok, thank goodness. I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter and that you appreciate how I describe Maximus' eyes haha I have something about eyes. I always want to focus on them for some reason. I should probably try to expand my description of him haha Hahaha and I'm LOVING the hate for Faustus. It's fantastic. Maximus is leaving again so... Hm. Will Faustus obey him? hehe The drama continues! Thanks forthe review, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter xoxo

Syrena: I have a really good friend of mine who was looking through my reviews, and she goes, "Who is Syrena Swift and _why _is she calling you her 'wifey'?" I was like, "Uh... It's not what it looks like!" hahaha No, I'm so happy to have you back. I hope everything turned out ok with you? Uh oh! Faustus is the new King of Douchiness! I totally concur. Clarinet boy hahaha who the fuck is that? And why is he so serious? hahah I've missed your memes! I do like Arwa and Maximus together though I was having a hell of a time getting them to actually like each other. I was about to be like "You bitches are not doing what I need you to do. I feel like we need to break up" haha BUT! Clearly their bond is growing _beyond_ sex which is the important thing. Maximus is leaving again... Faustus! What will he do? haha I can't wait! MUAH I hope you liked this chapter xoxo

klandgraf: I so LOLed at your review. I guess I should have make it more explicit that Maximus was not married, but then I had to laugh because you were thinking he was married and you were so pro-Maximus and Arwa! :D I take that as a compliment, and I like it! hahaha Awesome :D Thanks so much for the review! I hope you enjoyed this chapter xoxo


	13. Look After You

Chapter 13  
>"Look After You"<p>

He threw back the canvas flap and entered his tent, the aggravation rolling off his broad shoulders from the Magister Equitum and his condescending tongue. He brushed past her figure standing in the threshold between the meeting area and his private quarters without so much as a wandering glance, and she twisted to watch him find his barren racks and address the latches of his chest plate. The agitation manifested in his impatient hands, and the leather would not yield as he desired.

"What bothers you?"

The buckle was caught, tightening the metal rather than releasing it, and he exhaled shortly through his nostrils like a cornered animal. "The Emperor has sent his man to see our progress," he said. "He is not pleased…"

Her slender fingers slipped past his and nimbly worked at the leather compressing the metal around his chest. The latches submitted, allowing the two halves to part, and he abandoned the chest plate to fall to the ground with a dull clatter, a slight disruption of the dirt at their feet. His body remained as rigid as the iron welded to match his proportions, a casing of his barrel chest neglected on the floor.

"We march at dawn."

The simple words bore a weighty burden, and her chin dipped, her gaze following down his body where she could see his tunic damp with sweat from the desert heat and clinging to the lines of his chest.

"To kill my people," she understood.

He looked at her but said nothing.

She turned away, unable to face his eyes and the pressure they caused in her breast, and she strode into the open area knowing he would follow but wishing space between them. Always he was at her side, and she was exhausted of the obligation.

"Arwa," he said, and when she would not face him, he grabbed her wrist and wrenched her toward him, causing their chests to crash together as he twisted her captive arm behind her back. His kiss was dense and drugged on her lips, but his arm steadied her as his mouth molded to her, knowing how she enjoyed his assault, deep and unforgiving. Her back yielded between the power of his kiss and possessiveness of his arm gripping tightly, and when his muscles tensed and crushed her breasts, a soft moan left her lips. Her hand flexed, feeling the blood tingling out of it from the strength of his grip, and his fingers stretched across her palm and tangled in hers. His other hand wrapped around her hip, and the fingers sunk into her flesh, gripping tense to the muscle and skin, only to release it, searching for another angle, a better grip.

Her heart was erratic in her chest. The heat and sweat of his palm was sinking through the fabric and into her skin, and his searing breath swept across her swollen lips. She didn't recognize the way he held her –protective, as though something were threatening her that she could not see. Her skin shuddered when his lips found the indention beneath her jaw, and his large hand gathered the fabric of her dress. Their naked knees brushed together, their bare thighs next, and she pressed further into his arms, crushing herself against his chest. The same uneven trail followed her hairline with his hot breath warming her skin, and she unconsciously bent her head back and brushed his cheek where the stiff stubble pricked her throbbing mouth. Memories of his last absence were awoken behind her closed eyes. She recalled the fear of his being injured, killed, or lost. She recalled the fear of being alone. The thin skin flickered with bothered movements of her eyes beneath.

"How long?" she asked through a shuddering breath.

His mouth found her again, his siege unending, making her forget the question, and he released her hand to draw her dress over the smooth curve of her backside. Her palms swept across his neck running her fingers along the tendons as unyielding as the rest of his body. Their lips turned clumsy, his kiss stole the breath from her lungs, and all at once he pulled away and drew her dress over her head, yanking her arms through the shoulders before she had the chance to comply or dispute.

His fingers sunk into her naked flesh and wrenched her into him again, kindling the pressure between them with his rough hands holding fast to her. They wandered across her skin, molding into the slopes of her body flexing and releasing and she groaned, agitated, into his kiss. Her naked breasts kneaded into his tunic, too sensitive for the coarse material, and her features flickered, at once wanting to pull away and unable to fight in his grip. His hands fell past the swell of her hips, circling below where they cupped her thighs and massaged the soft skin. Her knees shuddered as his fingers thrust between her legs, and he ripped them apart and forced her up his body. Her bottom slid against the map on the table, the metal on his leather kilt digging into her thighs, and she felt that assault too intensely, aggravated and aroused by the rough material rubbing against her core. Her legs wrapped around his hips, tightening, drawing herself closer to the evidence of his arousal, and his mouth parted, eyes closed to focus on the swell of her thighs around him hard and fighting against the fabric between them. She bit his lip, the feeling sending a shock of pleasure down his spine, and he forced her harder against him, the material of his tunic struggling against the pressure between their bodies. She swallowed down a mouthful of searing air, and his warm lips were massaging her throat making her skin quiver with the contrast of his soft lips and rough stubble coming through. The softest moan escaped her lips, and his hands angled her hips, rubbing her against him, letting the leather dig in deeper, until her head fell heavy between her shoulders.

His hips pushed harder against her, sending a wave of fire through her body. Her nipples dug into him, too sensitive rubbing the coarse material, and every shift of their breathless chests rocking together tantalized her skin. It was torture and it was pleasure bundled up and wrapped around her. The stiff leather embedded into him, but even the pain was pleasure if it brought him into the warmth of her thighs. He buried himself deep into her flesh, wanting the pain to calm him, but her thighs yielded indulgently, a soft moan sinking into his pores and sending the hairs on edge. He pulled her against him, rough, teasing her with the sensation of her core rubbing against him, and he was too greedy to release her as one hand grappled with the buckle on his kilt. Like his chest place, it was stuck and suffocating him. Her mouth seared kisses across the thin scar on his cheek, and her hands circled his barrel chest, searching through the fabric for the muscles and solid shoulders firm and tense. Her teeth found his earlobe, and he groaned, simultaneously frustrated and aroused, and abandoned his armor to kiss her lips. He lost himself in the velvety flesh, feeling the spark fed by her heated kiss, and his palms flattened on the wood behind her backside, trapping her between his chest and his arms.

Her legs flexed, driving her right into his hard shaft fighting to get free. He bit her lip with a low growl, stirred and agitated and throbbing from her teasing. His callused hand traced the slopes of her body, finding her knee and forcing her open wider to him. His hand slipped between their bodies, letting his knuckles brush her damp curls as his fingers found the swollen peak, sending a shock of pleasure so electric it sucked the air from her lungs. Her features contorted, and she tore his hand away, groaning as she kissed him deeper, rocking her hips against him to signal what she wanted. He bent to kiss her slender neck, lazily drawing his lips across the sensitive skin, distracting her as his hand pushed between her legs and found her again. Her fingers curled around his wrist, gripping tightly until she felt the tense tendons and muscles, and her body shuddered from his rough tips circling over her. Her teeth gritted, her eyes clenched closed, and her head fell heavy between her shoulders with a slow moan. He tested the skin of her throat, nibbling across the stretched muscles, and closing his eyes as his fingers swept lower, gauging her reaction to him and exhaling hotly at the wetness coating them. His kiss was rougher, forcing her neck back farther, and she choked on the air caught within her throat as his finger slipped between the folds. She pulled at his hand, cheeks flushing with how he touched her, but his arm was stubbornly wedged between their bodies and unmoving as his chest. His finger sunk in deeper, lost in the searing heat of her core and curling to feel the tightness of her walls. Her head swung forward, hanging limply over one shoulder where her hair tumbled across her face and hid her blooming cheeks from his sight.

His finger slid out slowly, making subtle circles, and the tip traced the line of her lips, flicking at the top and sending a quiver through her. She held tighter to his wrist, her knuckles turning white, trying to keep him from sinking into her again, but he was consumed by the sensation of her, teasing himself as he was her, paining his mind, making him harder against the leather strips. His finger did what he was throbbing to, and his steady pace drew a shivering breath from her lips. His nose nuzzled against her cheek, wanting to feel those swollen lips quiver against his, but her face was turned away, brow knit with shame at how he touched her and how her body reacted. The sweat was beading along her brow, across her shoulders, beneath her breasts, and her pulse couldn't contain the heat of his rough touch delving into her again and again. She wet her lips, her mouth parting, oblivious to his eyes watching her reaction, and when his finger slid from her again, two more returned. She moaned, feeling herself stretch to fit the swell of his knuckles, and he pushed his hips forward, letting his hard shaft drive into his hand thrusting into her. The desire was crawling beneath his skin like his heart thundering in his ears to transport the blood where he needed, and every brush of him against his tunic was pain contrasted against the searing heat of her core, hot as the desert sun, wrapped around his fingers. His hips guided him, letting his hand sink in and out of her, and her head fell back once more. He kissed her parted lips, desperate and harsh where his fingers were slow and measured.

She wouldn't open her eyes to see him, ashamed to reveal the thick passion flooding them, that heady desire making the room spin around her head. Her hips rocked back unconsciously, letting him brush a spot that crowned his name from her lips, and she straightened guiltily, trying to tear his hand from her again. He kissed her deeper, groaning into her lips, his name in her breathless tongue like a scourge to his back. It drove the pain of want deeper, and his fingers curled, hitting harder, rougher, fighting to make her say it again. But she couldn't breathe, less speak. Her body burned feeling his fingers sift inside her, the pleasure snaking around her ribs too tight to fit in a breath. Her hips worked against him, her legs flexing around his waist, and she shuddered with each collision. Beads of sweat dripped between her breasts, pooling against his tunic, and he was thrusting against his hand, every impact torture and pleasure shooting into his mind. There was a desperation to her movements, her legs pulling faster on his waist, her hips angling deeper, and he felt her wetness sinking between her thighs to mingle with sweat and sliding down his palm. He broke.

His fingers were torn from her and grappling with the buckle, and she groaned unfulfilled and frustrated to be denied when she was so close. Her skin was pulsing with want of him, and the absence between her thighs drove her hands forward where both were tangling with the buckle of the leather kilt and forcing it to yield. It fell with a soft rustle at his feet, and there was no sound or sensation more victorious than that blinding second of freedom. Without hesitation, his strong legs pushed forward, his body sifting into her, his full weight digging her deeper between his arms and chest and guided by his hips between her thighs. He kissed her, but his celebration was short-lived feeling the heat of her core taunting him through the fabric. She struggled with his tunic clinging to his back wanting to feel his naked skin against her, and his hands were as desperate until together they ripped the material over his head.

Without hesitation, he fell into her, forcing her to take it all in one thrust. He was too eager, too blinded by his desire, and the pain rushed through her body like fire straight to her lips where she cried out, throwing her head back, breathless with the throbbing between her thighs. Her palms found his hips, pushing him back to let her breathe. He refused, overpowering her strength, and he caught her wrists even as they fought out of his grip and pinned them on either side of her head, a reverberating smack as he pressed her into the table. He drew back, and his teeth found her nipple protruding firmly out for him. He caught it, barely nibbling as he felt her writhe beneath him, and swept it into his lips. His tongue swirled around the skin salty with sweat, toying with the hard flesh, letting it fight against him when her body rocked. She moaned loudly this time, distracted from his true purpose until she felt him drive into her again, deep and reckless. Her lips quivered with the tremors traveling up her spine, so much pleasure it was painful to contain it, and her body wrestled with the limits like the pulsing of her core around him. Her wrists twisted in his grip, and he funneled his weight over her, stifling her fight, making her bite his brow as her hands balled into fists. He kissed her chin. His hands unraveled her fingers and curled around her palms. She gripped tighter to his hands letting their fingers twine until her knuckles were white, and when his nose nuzzled against her own, she shook her head and clenched her eyes closed. He hit her again, and she choked on a breath with her muscles contracting to still the pressure of his thrust. There was no time for her to adjust, for him to ease into her. She had to let him love her, trust he wouldn't hurt her.

She clenched her eyes closed, dousing herself in darkness, her mind briefly calmed and able to sense the tangle of emotions knotting inside her –the raw need to have _him_. The pleasure melted into her pain as knotted as their fingers, and when his hips buried into her, she moaned so loudly her body reverberated with the sound. Her brow knit, and his burly chest pushed higher, angling his hips in when she thought she couldn't fit more of him. Her eyes flickered closed, sensing they might roll into her head, like her body breaking beneath him, and she gritted her teeth to contain a whimper. His mouth subdued her shaking lips, kissing the corner, following the swollen bottom lip and running his tongue along the velvety flesh to savor her taste and her response to him. His forehead burrowed against hers, creating such pressure between the sweaty skin she waited for the two halves to meld like their hips meeting again, his length driving into her so deep and fast his name tumbled from her lips. He groaned to hear it again, able to sink into her searing heat like the sound into his pores. She gulped down the air, but nothing could soothe her burning. His grip relaxed only to contract again, like their restless bodies hungry for an end, and her eyes flickered open finally to meet the smoldering blue. The need, the magnetism simmering in his depths left no questions, and she thrust her chin up, forcing their lips to collide where she could feed on his scent and his weight and his taste. Her kiss awoke him, making him insatiable, having him want for more. His hands left her, sweeping down to grip her and force her hips off the table. Her numb fingers dug into the muscles of his back like his sinking into her backside, and he thrust into her again, needing to remember that first explosion of nerves in his head that made him groan deep in his throat with satisfaction.

Her body fretted beneath him, and he growled against her ear, the position creating a new friction to tease him, his cock now hitting her how his fingers had. He was reminded of her limitations, those tight walls fighting to contain him and push him away, but he pushed in deeper, embedding his hips into her thighs, admiring how her soft body yielded to him. She held tight to his shoulders, turning her face into his strong neck to hide her contorted features. His heart was thundering in his ears, his muscles shuddering with the blood pulsing all through him, and her sweaty skin was sliding in his grip. He thrust harder, wanting to feel her soft flesh slide through his fingers, and he hit her too recklessly, making her cry out as her body fought against the table to arch her back into his chest. His abdomen rippled with the muscles flexing to find her again, to sink into her thighs, to open her to him wider and deeper and harder. Her body tensed, drawing her nails across his skin, and he gripped to the muscles of her bottom, flexing his arms to pull her into him when his legs were not enough. Her knees fell back and open, trying to fit him, to contain him, but he stretched past her limits, blinding her with the feeling of him cutting through too stiff, too strong. She sunk her teeth into his neck, and he growled with the combination tearing his mind in two directions, her harshness provoking him and reminding him of the insatiable hunger. His weight pinned her, oppressed her, made her unable to breathe, letting him use only her hips, making her too aware of his cock driving into her. Every gasp sucked through her lips was abandoned with the power of his body rushing through her, and her mind was dizzy and swirling. The room spun around them, the ground felt like it was sinking, only he was unyielding.

He swallowed dryly, his body shuddering with the angle and the position, his face buried into her hair. He inhaled her scent like the desert air, spicy, dry, unforgivable, and his body was too eager, hitting too swift, forcing her out of his grip. Her backside tumbled onto the table, and he flipped her over, not giving her the time to brace herself before he found her again. She cried out with the power of his cock driving into her, the strength stolen from her as she lay bent over the table. The wooden edge dug into her hips, scratching at her skin with every thrust, and she moaned between pleasure and pain. The muscles gripped too tightly to his legs, but he was blinded by the feeling of her core consuming him. Her hips opened wider to him and rotated trying to find the angle to accept him where she could bear the pressure of him cutting through, and he exhaled forcefully, her teasing hips making him breathless and hungry. Beads of sweat pooled in the indentations of her back, black strands tangled across the skin, and he kissed her rounded shoulder, her cheek, her temple, easing his body over her once more to her search her naked skin. He crushed her into the table, digging her naked breasts against the wood, and she pressed into his chest, feeling the spasm of muscles rolling through his body to contract around his waist and find her. She moaned and arched her neck, pushing her head deep against his strong shoulder, while his hand followed the lines of her body down to her curve of her bottom, massaging the back of thigh where he could feel the impact of his length burying into her. He groaned into her neck, roused by that raw sensuality, and straightened to better bury his hips into her. Her teeth circled one of his fingers, gripping to the flesh, moaning around the tip, and he felt the searing heat of her mouth, the vibration of her moan, reminding him too much of her core, wet and burning and sifting through him to set his blood on fire.

Her teeth released him as her head turned against the table, her eyes clenched closed, and her hips tried to fight away from the unending siege. Her hands curled to fists with every piece of her knotted up and slave to her desire, and he felt those walls contracting and circling around him and teasing his throbbing. His hands took her hips, guiding her to meet his thrusts, and she winced as her body drug painfully against the wood. The rush of pain woke her from the stupor of his length digging into her, and she pushed into her hands, eager to please him and to find him. Her nails dug into the table, and one hand reached back to tangle in his curls, forcing their lips to collide where she could unleash the passion sizzling inside her. Her lips were bruised and sensitive from his kisses, sliding clumsily across his, as his thrusts became rougher growing the more desperate and driving her heady with need. Her back caved as her head fell back, making her spine ache with how she bent for him, his hot breath sweeping across her cheek. He was too much, too unyielding, too stiff, but her body betrayed her. He sunk into the wet folds of her core, so slippery he could delve in as deep as he liked, angle her hips where he needed, let his length explore every piece of her, and she bit her lips with the pressure building in her abdomen. She needed his fingers again; she wanted it harder; the pleasure made her greedy and unrestrained, and she forced her hips against him, letting their wet skin slap together with the force colliding between them. She moaned loudly, he groaned into her neck, and she turned to see those blue eyes. That jolt, that pressure in her body made heavier by his swarming need, solely directed toward her, that raw passion she stirred in him, and it was mirrored in her mahogany depths. Her body ached, pulsed, shuddered, and the weight was burrowing deeper and deeper like his length inside her. Her brow fretted with the pressure, and he molded his face against her own, letting every piece of them collide. The tension was unbearable. She felt her body was collapsing in on itself, and then he found it. His cock thrusting into her, hitting that spot, and unlocking the deluge. It flooded through her, heavy and all consuming and abrupt. She felt blinded by it, this explosion of red blooming behind her lids, and then the heat of his release following her own. She shuddered impotently in his grip, moaning against his lips, and felt the warmth spreading through her abdomen.

Their bodies were locked together, tangled and balancing their strength against the other's, and she exhaled shakily as the pleasure dissolved into her blood, leaving her exhausted, weak, quivering still as she realized they were joined with his hips embedded firmly into her backside. She was too sensitive to move and dug her fingers into his curls, holding him tight to keep him static, thinking the slightest brush between her legs would make her crumble, and his lips molded against her own, slow, steady, careful. Her eyes flickered shut to indulge in his tenderness, distracted with the kiss soothing her tired body, and then he drew from her, making her fight against the table with a whimper at her lips. Her body shuddered forcefully, and she felt weak like his strength was all that had held her from collapsing. She twisted to face him, almost stumbling over her own leaden feet, and leaned against the table to steady herself as he kissed her again, purposefully, possessively. She held his face, their sweat-lined brows sliding against each other, and his hands cupped her lower back. Their bodies were drained, sinking into each other, and her heart wouldn't calm inside her chest. Her lips were numb from his, her cheeks flushed a deep rouge, and she held his face close even as their mouths stilled to draw breath. Her eyes flickered open to see him, finding his blue gaze waiting for her, and her courage waned unexpectedly, leaving her flustered, disarmed by a raw look. She felt small with his brawn stacked above her, and she nodded her head subtly, drawing her nose against his, knowing how his features fit against her, and enjoying the brush of his hot breath. Her fingers wouldn't yield to release him, and he didn't pull away from her, instead drawing closer her at her command. His face brushed past her, his stubble pricking her cheek, and she kissed his shoulder, nuzzling her nose into the crook of his neck. His thumb massaged her lower back, and her tired eyes flickered shut, oblivious to their position in the center of his tent naked and in each other's arms.

Her throat ached as she said, "I would rather go to Rome –to never see my home again, than lose the things I love."

He turned his head, letting his face rest against the crown of her hair, and his hand stilled along her spine. "I will take you away from this."

The promise sent tremors through her heart, fearful and feverish, and she focused on the heat of his skin against her own, the flesh sticking together, their bodies still joined even after he slid from her. But by dawn he would be gone. Unconsciously, her arms wrapped more around his broad shoulders, trying to fit them into her embrace and disappointed with how she could not hold onto him.

‡ ‡ ‡

Night lingered in the valley of the desert dunes even as the sun rose in the east to light their path along the Limes Arabicus. The fort was quiet behind them, soldiers only beginning to set about their tasks, when the forces left the gates. Cassius and Seneca rode at the front of the lines, Hadrien and his scouts next, and finally Maximus with the cavalry. His steed was restless as if he could sense the torrent inside his keeper, and Maximus idly patted the horse's neck to calm him. He shook his mane with a flustered exhale, and Maximus straightened in his seat, letting his heels against the steed's ribs control him. The air was chill, nipping at his bare arms and legs, and cooling the metal armor wrapped about him. His helmet rested in front of him atop the saddle, and the desert winds tangled sand into his growing curls. His hair needed cutting. He knew how the coils gave him a younger look, making him appear softer and kinder than he could afford to be.

His thoughts flickered to the morning when he awoke. She was angry with him, but he could not condemn her for that. He had kissed her, knowing she would submit to his lips and his arms, and in their wake, she had stared at him with those mahogany eyes full of regret and lost. Years he had been a soldier. He bore the scars of his battles, knew the feeling of taking a man's life, and had scathed past death enough to recognize its chill touch brushing his neck. Yet, he was discomforted by the reluctance of turning away from her and abandoning her in the fort. No woman had stirred more in him than carnal fascination, and he disliked the sensation that her eyes had burrowed beneath his skin when she looked after him and watched him walk away.

"Distracted, Meridius?"

He glanced at Seneca who had fallen behind to ride beside him. Maximus prodded his steed's ribs, encouraging their pace to quicken slightly, as he replied, "It is a long journey to Azrou."

"How many years have you been a soldier, General?"

"Many," he dismissed, uninterested in speaking with the Magister Equitum.

"You've gained something of a reputation in Rome."

Maximus didn't answer.

"I have been interested in meeting you for some time. I was intrigued when I heard you had been appointed to general."

"Then you were as surprised as I."

"Were you? Most men expect it after serving as long as you have."

"I expected the life of a soldier, nothing more."

"Yet you accepted… A man of your line must have greater ambitions than to be a farmer in Emerita Augusta."

His features fell distrustfully, realizing the extent Seneca had learned of him, but he was neither threatened by nor interested in the power struggles of Verus' lieutenant. "Every soldier wants for a peaceful life."

"But most cannot accept it. You've fed on the glory of battle, seen the fear in your enemy's eyes, felt the rush of power as you took his life… A life of normalcy cannot occupy you."

"I've not had the fortune to test such a theory."

"I have… You are bred from soldiers, Meridius."

"What are you getting at?" he growled impatiently.

"A future in Rome."

"I've no taste for politics."

"War is politics."

"I'm fast losing my taste for that as well."

"You're too young, General, to turn away from this path now."

"I am too old to begin a new life."

"Consider it," he decided as it became apparent the conversation was stranded between two stubborn men. Silence fell between them, and the Magister Equitum surveyed the empty landscape. "There is a certain lure to the starkness of it all," he commented idly.

Maximus did not respond.


	14. While The Wolf's Away

Chapter 14  
>"While The Wolf's Away"<p>

In two days little had changed in her circumstances aside from an incessant sense of boredom and a rediscovery of what it meant to be stranded and alone. Where her pride had sustained her through the first few weeks, now her hands and body succumbed to a much simpler occupation. Like a true slave, she found herself tidying the cramped quarters of his tent until every corner and niche had been attended. It was not a thrilling activity, but she was less embarrassed since few if any would know what she had done. The servant who still visited each day to bring fresh water, bread, and food knew, but Arwa was sure she was relieved it gave her a break from her usual tasks. Yet, Arwa was dismayed to find that though her hands were preoccupied, her mind wandered –to him. She counted the days like counting her teeth, superstitious and uncertain, and she wondered how long.

Soft clinks interrupted the silence of the tent as she rearranged the platter of food and cups on the table to a more aesthetically appealing display, though none would enjoy its perfect symmetry other than her. She hummed quietly, a tune without words, something she had heard once and long forgotten. The canvas rustled with the winds sweeping through the fort, and she stepped back, resting her hands upon her hips, to survey her work. Smiling slightly, she snatched one of the cups away and turned to grasp the pitcher of water. The cup tumbled to the floor as the sharp breath was sucked through her lips, and she stiffened as if electrified by his presence. He tore the cloth from his eyes, rising from his stooped act, where he appeared grander, taller, broader than she recalled. Her eyes followed and swept to see him all, the packed muscles hidden beneath shredded cloths.

"Razin," she said as the same breath eased from her lungs.

He bowed his head.

"You came," she marveled still as if he were a phantom waiting for the slightest wisp to vanish and never return. "I feared you had forgotten –or worse…"

As his neck straightened, the frown was revealed on his features, dense and deep. Her eyes narrowed, and he asked, "Why do you speak Greek with me?"

Her heart dropped as she acknowledged she hadn't realized her mistake, and the blood was flooding to her feet, making her feel weak rather than elated. "It has become habit," she said dismissively and touched her fingers to her brow lined in a light sweat. She was embarrassed for him to see her so unkempt. No matter the attempts she made to smooth it, without a proper brush, her long hair had become tangled and snarled into a grand mess. Similarly the bottom of her dress was stained from the dirt considering its length draped across her toes. She tucked her hair behind her ear and squared her shoulders, pretending to be the proud daughter of Khalid that she had once been.

"Where is the Roman?"

"Away… Searching the lands for the tribes."

From behind Razin's towering stature, the scrawny boy emerged, only his head of mussed black hair and large brown eyes which were glued to the platter of fruit, bread, and meat Arwa had arranged moments earlier. Her posture softened unconsciously, and she prompted, "Eat," while sweeping her hand toward the table. The boy flinched, but then his gaze travelled up Razin's side where the man barely nodded his chin. The boy rushed forward, tearing a lump of bread and trying to stuff it into his mouth in one attempt.

She smiled at his haste, but there was a crease between her brows. "Do you not feed him?"

"Of course," Razin answered. "Twice what he should eat." He exhaled long and slow through his nose, making his chest compress and giving his aged features a softer look as he gazed at the boy's back –like a parent looking upon their child with inexplicable omniscience. "But he grows each day and has a stomach that cannot be filled."

Her thoughts strayed, and her lips followed, "Like Nasr."

Her gaze flickered toward Razin, and before she could ask, he answered, "He is well. Fatimah cares for him now."

"What of Sa'id?"

"He has greater concerns." Razin paused with a solemn look. "The tribes fight each other."

Arwa gripped the back of the chair at her side, digging her fingers into the wood with the wave of frustration. "My father, my grandfather, worked years to build an alliance between them –to unite them to fight against Rome!"

Razin needed no lesson in their history and merely sustained her gaze.

"My people crumble, and I can do nothing…"

"You are," he said with such certainty that her proud face faltered.

She looked toward the boy once more where he was eating and poured a cup of water for him. "I thought he was a prop for your guise."

"When I heard of the Roman's retreat to the fort, I camped outside of Ar-Raqqah. While in the market one day, this boy nearly robbed me blind. He told me he could help me gain access to the fort, and I let him keep his hands."

"You care for him," she suggested, knowing Razin would not lie to her.

"His mother was a whore who died years ago –or so he claims."

"He is lucky to find you." Their regards met, and her mahogany eyes warmed. "You would make a great father."

There was a flicker in his black depths, though he voice was even as he responded, "It was not the path granted to me."

Curious, Arwa pressed, "Haven't you wanted a wife? A family?"

His blunt look disarmed her in the way one recognizes something that has always been there, and her chest tightened until it felt difficult to breathe. She wet her lips and turned toward the private quarters where they would speak free of the boy's presence. Razin followed, and she felt the prick of uncertainty standing in a room marked by her passion with one man and now invaded by another who bore the weight of her responsibilities. She ran her fingers idly through her loose hair, abandoning the knotted locks as her knuckles became tangled.

She felt the burden of his attention on her back but didn't desire to face it. "You grow soft, Arwa," he said, and her bones ached with the truth of his words.

"I've had nothing to fight for."

"What of the plan? What of your purpose?"

Her shoulders fell with the weight of her lies and her hopes bundled across her back. She turned slowly to face him, her face strewn with guilt and resolve. "We are of two different worlds. I could not understand the price I offered to pay."

"You surrender?" he hissed in fury.

"I have no opportunity to fight! I didn't understand, Razin."

"You understood," he pressed and advanced toward her. "You understood that to reclaim your title, to lead after your father, to save your people, you must sacrifice, and you have. Now you must finish this!"

"I cannot be the last hope!" she growled with frustration, and her hands balled to fists. "–for the tribes –for my family –for you! I cannot bear that burden."

"You have been raised to bear it. Time with him makes you weak. You've forgotten who you are."

"I've lost everything! My family and my life. You saw how the tribes turned against me. There is nothing left."

"Continue the plan-"

"There is no plan that can save me!"

"Stop this," he commanded sharply and took her limp shoulders between his hands. "Where is your anger? Where is your fury?"

She shook her head, feeling leaden with exhaustion where that fire should have been.

"You forget!" he growled. "Arwa, Daughter of Khalid, Leader of the Banu Tamim tribe. Arwa, Daughter of Asma, descendant of the Nabataean Kingdom. Arwa, the Gifted, they called you when you were a babe."

"A title is empty words within these walls."

His hands shook her, trying to rattle away this numbness, but she barely fought in his grip. "We made an oath! I do not break my oaths, nor will I let you."

"I can do nothing! He took my weapons. He threatened the proconsul from calling on me. The plan has crumbled, Razin. I failed…"

"You have not tried!" His anger seethed through his pores, setting his dark eyes to flames beneath his knit brow. "You will meet this man. You will kill him, and you will regain the honor and dignity that those swine stole from your family!"

"What will I do once he is dead? They will kill me before I leave his quarters!"

"I will take you."

"How?" Her eyes searched his face contorted with anger as hers was relaxed and lost. "How can you protect me from legions of soldiers?"

"I will," he promised stiffly, a rough rumble from his throat.

She threw off his hands, pushing past him toward the canvas dividing the two quarters. His hand gripped her arm, and her skin curled.

"Do not touch me!"

He held her in place even as she twisted with venom at her lips.

"You will obey me!"

He grabbed her other arm, holding her in place, as he said, "I obey Arwa, Daughter of Khalid. I do not see her before me."

No sooner had the insult landed like a fresh scourge to her raw back did her fingers find the dagger at his waist and force it against his neck. Her eyes were hard and black as deep coals, her tone icy as she warned, "Speak of me that way, and I will take your tongue."

His heated breath barely fogged the clean blade, and the edges of his mouth tensed. "Forgive me, _al-Sayyida_."

The heat of his palms wrapped around her bare arms, their faces breaths from the other, gazes sustained and caught. Time with the Roman made her wiser, able to recognize the look even if in another man's eyes. Her blade remained fixed against his trimmed bear. "You trusted I would stop?"

"No."

Her heart thundered with a renewed power, a sudden rush of strength crashing through her veins, and she removed the blade from his throat and smiled.

‡ ‡ ‡

Their sandals sunk into the desert dunes, the sand invading every crevice, until the skin was worked raw beneath the tight leather straps. He barely noticed the dull flashes of pain, becoming accustomed to the discomfort from days lost in the desert, and his full concentration was on the man in front of him leading the way up the dune's side. Night had fallen, the stars stretched overhead with a pregnant moon to light their path, but even so darkness was thick in the abyss. The cold winds burned his eyes and numbed his fingers and toes, but he had no time to consider his state. Purpose drove him like the beast on a hunt, and as his knees buried into the sand, he eased across his belly to peer over the dune's edge.

In the depression between, scattered fires lit the pale sand, and his pulse raced with anticipation. Seneca settled to his right, and he couldn't turn to see the satisfaction on the Magister's face. No doubt Seneca assumed them lazy and incompetent to complain of the difficulty tracking these men only to now find them within the first week. The gratification of finally discovering the tribe was bitter, for Maximus could sense his friend's insult at his left. Hadrien blew shortly through his lips, funneling a small indention in the sand before his nose. The tribe had been tactless in their escape. Their trail seemed so obvious even with the deserts distortion as to make them suspect the tribe never attempted to hide their path. Arrogance. Negligence. Foolishness. Maximus could think of many reasons for their change in tactics, but he was relieved all the same.

The few tents and fires were a sight which sparked the beginning of the end. In their center, the fat carts were placed for protection.

"Two guards," Maximus whispered beneath his breath.

"Three," Hadrien corrected as a third stepped out from behind the cover of a tent.

"Alert the men," Seneca contributed. "We should attack."

"There could be more," Hadrien disagreed. "Hidden beyond the other dunes."

"We saw no more tracks."

"That does not mean there are none."

"Have the men circle the area. We attack from all sides."

"Quiet!" Maximus interrupted, and both men considered him with aggravated glances. "I see something… Over that hill."

They strained to pierce the night with their gazes, eyes paining with the effort, but unexpectedly there was a flare –like a brush of light so unannounced and brief it seemed a trick of the stars.

"Whose man is that?" Seneca hissed angrily.

Both Hadrien and Maximus were silent, knowing their were troops were stationed behind them with no orders to advance.

Then, all at once, the men swarmed from the edge of the dunes with battle cries in their native tongues and torches burning bright. The guards called for the tribe to wake, and men stumbled from their tents in various states of undress, most brandishing nothing more than their blades. They met with a clashing of swords which rumbled up the sides of dunes, and as the invaders funneled into the valley, tents were lit ablaze.

"What is happening?" Seneca asked in alarm.

Maximus' eyes burned as he switched from the calm blanket of night to staring deep into the encampment being overwhelmed by flames. The fires illuminated men and threw thick shadows across others, and it was impossible to tell each apart from the other. The battle was swift and ended within the hour when the original tribe was slain or fled and the men had stolen all from the carts that they could carry. As they disappeared over the dune they had rushed down, Maximus, Hadrien, and Seneca stiffened to attention.

In the east, the darkness was breaking, and dawn would soon be upon them. The cold had staved off weariness, but his body felt rigid and locked into position. The slightest movement took great effort to be smooth, and he realized that his hands and feet had gone numb. Gritting his teeth, Maximus forced himself to his knees, sitting back on his heels where he could look over his shoulder at the troops. Some waited for command while others were sleeping back to back with their weapons held across their laps.

"They've left," Hadrien confirmed and stood to his feet. He groaned, and the joints of his body cracked loudly against the muscles pulled taut. Seneca soon joined him, grumbling as his old bones fought against him, and Maximus was the last to stand.

They surveyed the ruins of the camp with mixed expressions, and at length, Seneca commanded, "See what we can learn of their position and their plans –and who attacked them."

Hadrien and Maximus stepped across the peak of the dune and descended down its side. The sand was malleable as water, making their heavy heels slide at every opportunity, and their stiff joints were slow to react. Maximus' knee landed in the dirt, pulling his weight back, as he slid down the last decline of the dune. The sand rubbed away the skin and stuck to the blood seeping toward the surface. The General seemed unconcerned and stumbled to his feet. Hadrien was slower considering his greater age, but both men approached the abandoned camp together.

Skeletons remained of some tents, only the bearings and strips of the leather, while others were intact and standing tall. Without comment, the generals split and circled around opposite routes of the camp. The grounds were silent aside from the quiet crackling of fires dying out. Dead littered the sand, their blood congealing in the cool of night. Maximus stepped across a corpse, watching carefully to be sure he was dead, and weaved his way between the tents. The carts were not completely emptied, and he recognized vessels of wine and oil as well as sacks of grain, no doubt stolen goods from Azrou. Then, Maximus found a man whose body was wrapped in black fabric, too tightly and perfectly to be one of the men awoken from his sleep, and he did not recognize the uniform as one the guards were wearing. Frowning, he squatted beside the foreigner and turned him onto his back. His lungs exhaled with a wheezing breath, but his head lolled in the sand lifeless and heavy. A twisted black cloth wrapped around his head and face, leaving only his eyes uncovered, and Maximus yanked the cloth from across the man's face. Blood smeared into his black beard, but the Roman recognized the features of his enemy.

"It is one of them," Hadrien commented, and only then did Maximus realize his friend had joined him.

"So it seems."

"What do you make of this?"

"Like the Gauls," Maximus suspected. "They fight amongst themselves."

"When they have a common enemy at their heels?"

"It is not wise," he said and stood once more. "But I cannot fathom what other reason for this."

"They raided the supplies."

"We knew they were looking for resources."

"Thieves stealing from each other…"

"Is it such a stretch?"

"No." Hadrien scratched his graying temple and pointed out, "It would seem our problem is solving itself."

Maximus glanced at his friend.

"They are killing off their own. What need is there for us to remain here?"

"I doubt the gods are so kind," he grumbled with a half-hearted smirk.

"Let an old man dream."

Maximus turned his attention toward the peak of the dune where he could decipher the outline of men curious to see the battle won without a single Roman blade raised. "What will Seneca say of this?"

"Nothing favorable."

Maximus watched as Hadrien nudged the corpse with the edge of his shoe. "I suspect his intentions."

"As you should." He bent to draw a thick gold ring from the man's finger and inspected it in the flickering lights. "One of my officers spoke with a messenger from Rome… There are rumors Verus' power wanes. Some of the senators worry about a coup."

"He needs this war won…"

Hadrien nodded, distracted. "To regain his favor in Rome. Seneca is only his whipping boy. Like Faustus, if Verus falls so too will all his subordinates."

"Even if this war were won tomorrow, it would not protect his power."

"I'm sure he realizes that, but desperate men are blinded from the truth."

Reluctantly, he admitted, "Seneca approached me with a proposal of a future in Rome…"

"Ah, each general receives the same pitch at some point in his career." Hadrien glanced at his friend and smiled. "Not to dampen your pride, Meridius. Senators and politicians look to back prominent officers within the army. The liaison proves advantageous when they need military protection, but more often they seek greater connections. Information is power in their fields. What they know, they use as a weapon against their opponents and gain greater prestige… It is a game of politics, my friend, and we are pawns."

"I turned him down," Maximus assured him with a firm nod.

"You're wiser than I was at your age." Hadrien sighed and rotated the ring between his fingers. "I do not recognize his uniform. Perhaps we miscounted the number of tribes."

Maximus considered the dead soldier once more, agitated by the seeming familiarity of his appearance and confused now that Hadrien claimed to have no recollection of him. His tired blue eyes ached as he squinted through the darkness to better assess his uniform, and his mind searched slowly with the flames flickering in the edge of his sights. The memory hit him, and he frowned subtly.

"I recognize it," he said.

"How?"

"My slave… Her guard wore this uniform."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hi my lovelies! So the plot thickens :) Did you forget about Razin?

Thank you to Syrena Swift and Miss Lynxx for the sweet reviews! :D

Syrena: Ah wifey I've missed you! OMG that meme with the drawing -wtf! haha And I totally took it as a compliment that you find Arwa witty. I wasn't particularly trying to make her sound clever, but dammit I'm happy she came across that way! Hahaha Seneca's a douchebag too? Man basically all my Romans are turning into assholes expect Maximus' friends whom I personally love. OMG I want rainbow cupcakes now! I am so getting a cupcake tomorrow in honor of you :) I do love Maximus and Arwa's time together. I told my friend I was trying to do a scene where they were more emotionally connected, and she read it and was like, "These are not the positions I would pick for loving, caring sex..." And I was like perfect! Because they're not all sweet, let me cradle your face while we make sweet, passionate love on a beach somewhere. That being said, I had to make Arwa a little tougher in this chapter. I like her better bitchier hahaha SO what do you think of Razin and her plan? You just wait 'til next chapter! I'm gunna slap you upside the head, but in a good way! Thanks for the review, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! xoxo

Lynxx: Banana nuggets? Oh my! You have the cutest little things to say :D Yes, I'm really, really trying to get these chapters out faster. My life is a bit of shit storm right now, but I'm leaving the country in two weeks so I need to get this done! McDonald swine bwahahaha Um... I'll leave that to be answered in the next chapter ;) Clearly she and Razin have been planning something big for a while... You're so, so, so sweet. Thank you. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm too verbose, and my actual meaning gets lost in the words. It's difficult to translate what's going on in my head into something written, but I try! And I'm very glad you enjoy it :) Thanks for the review, gorgeous, and I hope you liked this chapter! xoxo


	15. Fire & Ashes

Chapter 15  
>"Fire &amp; Ashes"<p>

"You came," he said with his glossy eyes glittering in the candles scattering the room.

Her hair brushed across her hip as she stepped further into the space, taking stock of the barren walls and overflowing table without removing her gaze from his.

His fatty mouth curled with the sweat beading across his upper lip, and the smile formed, slow and sickly. His waning hair was smooth over the bulbous head, and his heavy robes draped and folded around his voluminous body. One edge was folded carelessly across his arm where he held it, coincidentally exposing his plump fingers skewering heavy rings. It seemed time within these lands had infected his Roman ways, staving off that cardinal austerity for the allure of riches. His other hand cupped a chalice of wine and extended it graciously toward her like he had been waiting to exhibit his skills of accommodation. Reticent and ever suspicious, she considered his black eyes, the gleam of the candles making it impossible for her to discern their shifting depths. She took the chalice and held it at her waist to feign an ease she did not feel.

He chortled briefly and ran his thumb across his lips. "I swore I would not forget our agreement… You have avoided me longer than any other woman. For that, you have my unyielding attention."

Her features remained void of any response like her throat taut with anticipation but silent still.

"Drink," he prompted and waved his hand encouragingly. "You are in the company of a Roman –not a barbarian."

Her nostrils flared at such a blatant insult, but she brought the cup to her lips and sipped calmly. The warm liquid slid across her tongue and sent a burst of aroma burning up her nose. It was laced heavily with herbs, spices, and unguent so that she fought a cough as it ignited her throat. Her eyes pricked, and she blinked swiftly, her cheeks warming a deep rouge. Faustus laughed heartily until his gut rumbled beneath the layers of fabric and sent them off balance around his thick build.

He readjusted them lazily and inquired, "You do not enjoy the wine?"

"It is too dense for my tastes," she answered finally; her tongue could never remain still for long.

His brow wrinkled with intrigue, and he drew closer where she could see the sheen of oil masking his features and sweat beading along it. "I thought your people were gluttons for excess."

"You know little of me or my people."

"I should like to change that…" he commented distantly as his eyes trailed down her body. Remembering himself, he sneered and turned toward the table. "First, a meal. We have time for pleasantries while your general is away."

"You take pleasure in calling me while he is gone. You do not have the courage to ask for me and face his rage."

His head rolled heavily her direction, black eyes flashing, and he warned, "Strong words for a slave girl."

"I acknowledge the obvious."

His plump lips trembled subtly, and his hand wrapped along the back of a chair. "You are ignorant as the rest of your brethren. Like pests, you multiply, you steal, you swarm, and you will find your end beneath the heel of a greater force."

"You cannot crush me."

He chuckled and licked his lips. "I can do as I please with you, however I desire, even kill you if the thought provoked me." He jerked one of the chairs back: Its groan against the floors sharp was a whip through the dense silence. "But now sit girl, and dine with me."

Exhaling, Arwa conceded and settled into the seat opposite him at the table for there was only one plan, and it required her full commitment. There were no servants to distract his attention with their bountiful breasts, no naked slave girls, no musicians. The eerie silence struck her, and she watched his plump fingers sink into the flesh of a peach while he brought it to his lips and ate hungrily. The juices ran to his chin as his lips sucked at the soft fruit, clumsy and eager where her Roman's were agile and well-versed in how to tease her. Her features unconsciously settled in disgust though she half-heartedly took a piece of chicken, separating its greasy skin from the meat, and chewed the tender morsel. The spices oozed from the meat, and her nose wrinkled with the assault on her senses. Thoughtlessly she swiped her cup from the table and indulged in another thick gulp of wine to wash down the overwhelming sensation. It only compounded the searing taste, and blinded by the rush, she grappled with a piece of bread and chewed on it to sop up the flavor from her tongue. It was tough and similarly tainted, making it painful to swallow down the portion she too eagerly chose. The agitation of his presence manifested in the swell of blood to her head, and she felt the subtle chill of a sweat breaking across her brow. Her eyes swept the length of the table for a pitcher of water, and he dropped the pit with a soft clink into the center of his plate.

"For what do you search?" he asked calmly.

Her gaze steadied on him, and she felt a wave of dizziness sweeping through her. "Water."

"Here," he said and pushed a cup toward her.

Her tongue felt swollen and heavy for need of the pure, cool touch of water. She drank ardently, only to recognize the burn of wine, and coughed loudly while disregarding the cup to the floor. She heard it land and jostle across the wood, but her eyes were closed as she cleared her throat.

"Drink… It will calm you."

"No." She swallowed thickly and opened her eyes to face him. A sneaking smile met her gaze, but the edges shuddered uneasily even as she fought to focus on him. "What did you do?"

"Insurance," he replied without hesitation. "What do you feel?"

Aggravated, she pushed to her feet, her palms resting heavily across the table, and with a groan she swept them, sending the tainted platters and cups tumbling along the wood and to the floor.

Faustus laughed and stood as well. "I had not expected this so soon, but perhaps I was heavy handed in my quantities."

Hers fingers curled into the wood grain, her eyes fed by the fires around them, and her lips nearly drew back in a snarl.

"Almost two weeks he has been gone," the praetor continued, leisurely circling around the table and toward her. "Did you not find my patience strange?"

Her calf collided with the edge of a chair, making her knee collapse, and she stumbled backward clumsily as the herbs and spices took effect. The dizziness was growing thicker, distorting the lines of her vision and confusing her balance. She placed more space between them, growling faintly as she stared at the uneasy blob approaching her.

"I worried the plants would not arrive in time. Your general has a way of returning at the most inconvenient times, but look at you. Struggling to stand…" He chuckled and drug his heavy knuckles across the tabletop. "I confess I will miss the fight. I hoped to break you, but," he inhaled deeply as if savoring every sensation of this moment like a man claiming victory before the battle begun, "I have made preparations in my quarters. We will have time. You won't soon forget me…"

His fading words found a crescendo in his excitement, and his sweating palms curled around her arms. Distracted by his speech and his lust, he had not seen her hand find the bronze edge of a candlestick. He realized too late as the metal came crashing into his temple. He cried out, a throaty guttural sound like an animal squealing in pain, and the bronze hit his shoulder and his arms raising to protect him. All at once, the back of his hand collided with her cheek and sent her toppling over into the table. The wood groaned against the floor as it shifted beneath her weight, the pain bloomed fresh and raw in the side of her face, and she couldn't find the ground beneath her feet. Faustus' thick fingers tangled in her hair, gripping so tight she felt the strands tearing at the edges, and he thrust her face down into the wood. She groaned, the impact travelling up her nose and blinding her eyes, and her nails clawed at his hand in her hair. He hit again, making her disoriented head rattle, and without hesitation she reached back and clutched with her fingers like talons between his legs, squeezing at the manhood hard with excitement, until she heard the choked groan of pain and thrust her elbow up into his chin. He released her hair and retreated back, and she took hold of the bronze plate in front of her and twisted with a cry until the plate cracked into the side of his face. They both stumbled from the force, her agility increasingly waning as the drugs took effect. The dizziness was receding, giving way to a seductive, rolling weariness to numb her limbs.

She leaned back against the table and held tight to her makeshift weapon, but her spinning eyes couldn't find him through the haze. He rushed forced, clamping his sweaty, dirty fingers around her neck, and she was flattened beneath the weight of his body. His protruding stomach burrowed down on her chest, forcing the air out of her lungs, and his hands wouldn't allow her to suck it back in. Her mouth opened and closed, her legs kicked all the more fervently as his hips forced their way between her knees, and she felt the heat of suffocation burning her face.

"Fight me," he groaned in her ear, his slimy tongue tracing the edge of her lobe and sending a tremor through her.

She drove her thumbs into his eyes, making him screech with pain, and he threw himself back from her, finally giving her the space to breathe. She gulped down the cool air like she had been doused underwater, and her limp body slid down the table until her feet sunk into the floor. Coughing and choking, she felt along the table and stumbled toward the opposite end of the room, but his hands gripped the ends of her hair, yanking so forcefully she screamed and was thrown over her heels and onto the floor. Her head met the ground with a resounding crack, sending a rush of spiraling pain to oppress her, and she rocked unconsciously beneath its weight, trying to throw off the heavy web distorting her eyes. His foot buried in her ribs, and she shrieked again, collapsing in on herself and curling onto her side as she remembered the sensation of pain like fire tearing across her skin. Her body pulsed and ached and burned, but the numbness was spreading, terrifying her all the more when she realized her fingers wouldn't respond. Her legs wouldn't kick.

She barely felt his hands wrapping around her ankles, hoisting her feet up, and then the ground moved beneath her. Her arms limply trailed behind with her hair, her dress falling down her legs and struggling between the friction of the floor and his grip capturing part of the fabric around her ankles. Her lips trembled like the icy fear crawling down her neck, and her eyes pulsed with pain and horror. She screamed, but it sounded hollow in her ears. She wasn't sure it ever left her throat. Her head rocked from side to side, and her last effort channeled into her hands, flexing and driving her nails into the floor. They crackled noisily like the flames of the candles around them, and the tips swept across cool metal, unintentionally capturing it within her grasp. Her fingers circled to the tool, running her thumb clumsily along the edge until she recognized the dull prick of pain. A knife. He pulled her through another threshold, letting her head hit the door's edge, and the careless impact jolted her for another moment of conscious thought before she was abandoned.

She felt like a flame, burning, quivering, fighting to stave off the night, and the loud smack of a door closing felt like a sharp breath straining to extinguish her. Her eyes rolled unfocused in their sockets. She searched the fading colors and edges for her opponent, and her ears couldn't hear his heavy footsteps above the slow drum of heartbeat. It's fading pulse made time seem to slow, and when his greedy hands began pushing her dress above her ankles, she struck. Her hand blindly cut, hearing his cry but not knowing where her blow had landed, and she howled as she aimed the knife into his flesh. He was quiet. There was a rattle of metal clashing to the floor. Then screams. A foul odor met her nostrils, so repulsive her gut turned, and she rolled onto her stomach, only knowing she had accomplished it when her face met the cold floor. She dug her elbows in, welcoming the pain of the bones fighting through her skin, and she moved once, twice… Her head was careening into the abyss. Her heartbeat so slow and steady, she was sure it was poison he had given her. Death was seeping into the silence. The numbness moved beyond her waist. Her arms wouldn't move. Her temple rested on the floor. She felt the heat in the air. The smoke. The stench. The last beat shuddered through her, and she was gone.

‡ ‡ ‡

It had been nearly three weeks since he last gazed upon the towering walls of the Resafa Phrourion, and the troops pulsed with the anxious energy of returning home. He passed his horse off to the care of a slave, weaving his way impatiently through the throng of soldiers lining the streets until he saw the white canvas barracks ahead of him. He turned down the street, his blue eyes situated on the final tent at the end, and his stride lengthened to span the distance quicker. He ducked through the canvas entryway, eager and restless for her welcome, but the flap fell listlessly behind him. She was sitting at the table, her hollow expression considering the space ahead of her, and her reaction was delayed as she recognized he had joined her. Her head turned above her shoulders to face him, revealing the halo of blue, purple, and yellow around her eyes, the same shade circling her neck, and his vision shuddered so that he could see no more.

"What did he do?" he growled through his teeth, hands curling to fists at his sides.

She stood, looking abruptly fragile to him with how the ill-fitting dress hung from her rounded shoulders and slender curves. His brow contorted between fury and confusion, and she approached closer, letting him see the extent of her injuries all too clearly. Thoughts of how she took those blows, whether they traced the length of her body, the extent those hands had touched her made his burly chest shudder. As she reached him, her eyes flickered shut, a brief moment of hesitation, before she carefully placed her cheek against his chest plate. His chin bent so that his eyes could follow her, and he could catch the faint warmth of her scent radiating from her hair. It eased the tension knotting up his mind, but his hands remained flexed and stiff as weapons.

Letting her sink into his pores, he recalled the messenger who met them at the border. Solemnly, he reexamined, "What did you do?"

"I fought," she said stiffly, trying to restrain the anger biting at her heels, "but he drugged me. I fought…"

His teeth gritted with renewed insult. Only a coward, a spineless ass, needed drugs to compel his companions. Faustus could not contain her. He could not handle a real woman… "He-" The possibility trembled under his irregular breath, and he could delve no further. Maximus' mind was resolved. His strong neck straightened, tense and hard as his blue eyes staring ahead of him. "He is dead."

She was silent, yet the void was swollen with the secrets of that night.

"How?" The question was voiced sharp like a command, and he could feel the uneasy inhale expanding her chest when his hands cupped her lower back.

"Fire," she said. "He burned."

"Arwa," he returned stiffly, again an unvoiced command as she ignored the questions in his tense features.

Her head tilted back, her skin pale compared to the sinking depths of bruises staining her features. Her body looked weak, breakable in his hands, and unconsciously his palms opened wider to support her weight against him. Yet, her mahogany eyes were sifting with all he did not know, and in their shades, he received his answer. A satiated smile was ill-hidden, but he had known all along.

"I was unconscious," she said, voice absent of innocence.

"What lies have you spread?" he asked, already exhausted by the prospect of protecting her and discomforted to recognize how seamlessly he assumed the task. His brow was heavy with the burden, aging his features and making his frown deepen.

"None."

"You should be dead –with him."

"Your friend, Aulus. He questioned me," she said and shifted until her chest flattened against his metal chest plate. "I have not seen him again."

Maximus could not fathom his colleague's reasoning, but his body was too leaden to search out answers. He felt her slipping through the cracks of his armor, dipping into his resolve, and years as a soldier rusted his guard. His chin rested heavily atop the thick onyx crown of hair, almost crushing her into him and beneath him, but she stood tall in his grip. He envisioned his body flexing, muscles shuddering to release the frustration, and how she would break in his arms. His lips flattened into a dense line, and her small hands gripped his arms as though preparing herself for punishment. He should kill her. He should have killed her long ago.

But he released her, brushing past her confused look as he stepped toward his private quarters. He felt the tides turning like the ground churning beneath them. Faustus was dead, and his falling power was the omen of an end. She couldn't possibly understand what she had done no matter how she skirted around the truth, and dressed in his armor, weapon slung across his side, he couldn't promise her protection. Safety was not a luxury they could afford in their ranks.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Hello lovelies! I apologize for the delay. I'm in the midst of preparing for a summer abroad, and I had hoped I'd have the time to write... Seems a bit difficult when I'm running around like a chicken with its head cut off! I'm super excited for the next chapter...

Thank you to Miss Lynxx, Syrena Swift, and LightSaberMuffins for the sweet reviews! :)

Miss: Ah! I'm so glad you didn't forget about Razin! I almost did haha I hope this chapter answered your question :) I'm really sorry it took so long. I didn't want to put it up half-finished, so I made myself wait which is hard for someone as impatient as me! Arwa did indeed gut that giant lard filled pedo pig and roasted him though not intentionally! I wanted the actual scene to be a bit ambiguous because of her state, but hopefully it made sense (fingers crossed) I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and as always, thanks so much for the kind words! xoxo

Syrena: How dare you take so long! - pot calling the kettle black hahaha I don't fault you for forgetting about Razin! I didn't mention him for like seven chapters or something... Whoops! I too was swept away in this Maximus and Arwa thing... Damn. Hahahaha conspiracy Keanu! I think that's his permanent expression... "WOAH like totally dude"... I love your alliteration :) So clever, wifey! I wish I could incorporate that somehow haha I apologize if this note makes absolutely no sense. I took a pill for my sinuses, and it's like supreme drowsiness like they're trying to sedate a polar bear. I feel like Arwa... Ironic. Ok I adore you and thanks so much for the amazing review! Hope you liked this chapter xoxo

Muffins: OMG I forgot how much I love your name! It makes me giggle like a child haha I feel like singing The Boys Are Back in Town for Razin! His comeback made quite an impression, but that's understandable sincccceeee most everyone forgot about him! But I'm content to know it has been for good reason. I can accept Maximus and Arwa sexy time as a good distraction! Yet another evil cliff hanger I realized, so sorry about that. Ok only half-sorry. The evil side of me enjoys it hahaha I'm glad you've returned, and thanks for the sweet words! Hope you enjoyed this chapter xoxo


	16. Left Behind

Chapter 16  
>"Left Behind"<p>

Mechanical, brusque, rough, features hard as stone, he tied the leather straps around the supplies. _Blanket, water, bread_… He named off each item in his head yet again, perhaps reminding himself of his generosity to spare so much for a slave. His blue gaze strayed beyond the saddle to her slender outline against the bruised sky. Or perhaps he postponed the inevitable. He ducked his chin dismissively before she could recognize his wandering eyes. Her own were unfocused, slightly downcast in thought. He imagined she was planning her reunion with her people. She worried death awaited her, and yet he knew she would not have chosen them if she believed there were no chance she could regain her power. Never had he met a woman more determined or more instilled with the instinct to fight. Never had a woman driven so deeply beneath his armor. The final knot tended, he pulled on it but knew it would not give way, even at his strength.

"It's done," he announced in his rough voice.

Her eyes probed his profile, and he looked off toward the open gates and shadows of men disassembling their camps before the sun and heat rose. He expected her boldness to wane, but where he was stubborn, she was patient. Gritting his teeth bitterly, he looked at her and channeled his frustration into the hardened lines of his face. She didn't so much as flinch at his severe look. Rather her eyes were relaxed –almost like she could see past his façade.

"You should ride," he continued in the same gruff tone and stepped away from the horse. The edges of his cape brushed his knees, and he focused on that sensation rather than the constriction of his chestplate. "Before the sun rises. You don't have enough water to stave off the heat more than three days. Four at the most."

"I should find Razin within two."

Her calm tone annoyed him, compounded with the reminder of her guard who would take her now that Maximus released her. He exhaled sharply and ignored the prick of jealousy inside him. He thought to turn away and punish her with his disregard, but she approached him, intriguing him enough to keep still.

Her fingers brushed his cheek, and she swallowed densely, blinking away the weight from her eyes so that she could see him without impediment. Her tongue felt too heavy to lift even if she could find the words to fill the silence between them. It was her decision to return to her people and fulfill the destiny her father had paved for her, yet rather than empowering her, it left her weak and fatigued. His cloak was too large and heavy on her shoulders. She felt suffocated by the reminder. He thought he masked it, but she could see his guilt and his compassion in the supplies loaded onto the horse. He had given her everything he could spare, without provocation. Now there was only the man to be considered. She knew she would be released, but facing a future alone disarmed her. She stared up into his determined look and dragged her fingers along the prick of his stubble, trying to brush away this hard guise shrouding him from her. The war was over. They had nothing left to hide.

A muscle in his jaw flickered, and it was the crack in his resolve. He reached beneath the heavy wool of his cloak to find her skinny arms. She felt so tiny against his callused and scarred hands. She quaked unconsciously at his touch, and he massaged her skin to soothe her nerves. Her palms wrapped around his neck guiding her forehead dewy with sweat to rest against him, and his chin bent to follow her until his nose brushed her onyx hair. That familiar scent snaked through his pores and into his skin and pulsed through him, and he inhaled harder while pulling her into his arms. She already felt flimsy and intangible like he was holding to a memory, and he rested his lips against her temple to be sure she was still there –with him. His fingers purposefully tangled in the length of her hair like her hands clutching to his tunic. His embrace reopened the wound and suffocated the breath in her lungs. She smeared the tears into his chest, choking a bit on the air entering her lips, and tried to still the slight shiver from betraying her.

"Arwa," he breathed her name, and she felt her features trembling even as she hid them in his tunic, "why are you hesitating?"

Instinctively, she knew the answer he wanted. He wanted the truth, but she felt too weak in his arms to admit it. The lies gave her strength, tricked her into feeling proud about her decision, and so she continued, "They will kill me."

"You told me you welcomed death over my company," he reminded her, edging his face between her forehead and his chest.

"That was long ago…"

"I am a Roman wolf," he quoted without humor or sarcasm while his hands abandoned her hair for her face, "a soldier after my great-grandfather."

She subtly shook her head, keeping her gaze down, even as he guided her chin back so that he could see her tear-stained face. She was embarrassed by the clumped lashes and glistening cheeks, but against her shame, she wanted to see his eyes. Their calm resignation offered no answers, acting more like a mirror to show the holes in her resolve, and her lip trembled as she said, "You've never given me a choice."

"I am now." His shoulders stiffened, but his liquid blue gaze was wavering. His voice was low and gruff as he pushed past the tightening of his strong neck, "You are cunning and capable. You could escape them, find refuge with your neighbors, bury this."

Her eyes were lost staring up at him; two more tears fell past the refuge of her lashes and caught on his palms holding her cheeks. Her fingers still clung to his tunic. Feeling him in her arms, it pained her, but she couldn't release. "What will you do?"

"What I've always done. I will follow Cassius and fight for him and the glory of Rome." There was a shadow falling across his features, and she wished she could push it away and see him clearly.

Her brow knit, and she subtly shook her head as if his words housed some deeper meaning. She wet her dry lips, trying to ignore the crack in her voice as she realized, "You don't want me."

"Yes," he silenced brazenly as if exhausted by their charade, "but I won't command you on this." His hands readjusted his grip on her face, spreading his fingers to hold more of her and giving him time to gather his words. "Emperor Verus has fallen. Faustus was fortunate to die before the news reached him. The rest of us… We have been called to Rome, but you are not a slave to Rome –nor to me."

Her slender throat contracted as she swallowed thickly, and his eyes prodded her to fill the silence. _Say it,_ they coaxed, slightly desperate and angry. _Say what you truly want!_

But her head shook as if she could hear his thoughts. "My people."

His forehead sunk against her with defeat, and it was a bitter realization coursing through his veins. She would never choose him. But, he couldn't hate her for her decision –no matter the pressure building in his chest and behind his eyes. His head ached with it, with the loss of her, and she was still in his arms and somehow not. He kissed her brashly, trying to remember what it felt like to know her lips were for him alone, and he was dissatisfied with their sweet taste and how it fled from him. He chased the burn of passion, regretful now that he had fought it –guilty that he had hurt her, and he forced those unspoken words, wishes, apologies from his lips into her mouth until his chest begged for air. Then, at last, he retreated and laid his lips on her forehead. He released her.

She felt blinded by the rush of emotions, of the truth she should have spoken, and her palms were sweaty and indented with the fabric of his tunic where they found the reigns and the horse's rough coat. He helped her onto the steed, keeping her legs from being tangled in the fabric of her dress, and when her eyes reached out for him a final time, he stepped away.

"Go," he prompted, though he no longer commanded her. _You've made your decision, _his mind growled. "Go!" His hand hit the back of the steed like her heels burying in its sides, and all at once, she was gone taking the wind with her.

‡ ‡ ‡

On the second day she reached Ar-Raqqah, the only lead she had to find Razin and any chance of regaining the life she once had. The ride was long and arduous; the heat was unbearable even for a desert native; and the prospect of failure loomed ever constant. It was the hottest summer she could recall, and fear of the unknown made her too hasty to take many breaks. When she reached the eastern city, she knew she would be safe from ambush by the Romans –or worse, her own tribes. She had to approach them on her own terms. They would kill her if she were captured, and even with her father's blades once more in her possession and the Roman fort a wisp in the distance, she was more vulnerable than ever.

On foot, she winded through the narrow streets until she found the market in the center littered with stands all crowding along the walls, and in the dirt interior standing merchants harkened to any passersby. Arwa ignored their calls, scanning their lines for a particular silhouette and not knowing where she would turn if he were not here. Her nose guided her to a vendor offering freshly baked bread, and the dense aroma circling his stand left her mouth watering. Traditional _khubz_ unlike the hard, dense bread the Romans made, and she saw the alluring stacks of it peeking out from the material wrapped to insulate the warmth and keep away dryness. Her thoughts strayed to the small coin purse Maximus had hidden among her packs, but she felt too proud and too guilty to spend it when he had graciously packed her food and water as well. Perhaps he meant it to buy her a safe place to rest or to bribe someone if they discovered her identity. Regardless, it was not much, and she shouldn't wastefully spend it on food of all things. There were more important matters to attend.

She licked her parched lips and guided her horse away from the stand, but she had barely taken two steps when she heard it.

"'_Umri_."

For a moment, she held her breath dismissing the soft call as a father speaking to his son or daughter, and superstition and fear kept her from turning her head to search out the speaker. The calls of the market drowned out the noise, and she brushed it away as a creation of her imagination. Swallowing down her disappointment, she began walking once more.

"Arwa!"

Her advance halted once more, but this time the call was unmistakable. Her bones shook with the effort to turn her body and face the possibility, dreading what she would see and hoping with every fiber of her being that it was Razin. Her knees faltered, and she nearly collapsed into his embrace when his arms swept around her and crushed her against him. Tears of relief streamed down her face, mixing with the sweat and caking pieces of hair against her cheeks.

He tore her from him and held her arms as he stared in disbelief. "What are you doing here? How did you escape? Were you followed?"

His instinct to protect her could not be weakened by months apart, and she almost laughed with dizzy relief by the sensation of security washing over her. Safe. She was finally safe. "No," she promised and couldn't contain her smile though it ebbed as she continued, "He let me go."

Razin's face froze between a look of distrust and alarm. "Why?"

"It was my choice."

"You came to find me," he noted and seemed mesmerized by this, leaving her to realize where he thought her alliances lay.

It stung her, being doubted by a man who had seen her grow, and yet it was a confirmation of the truth she had been turning away from and one that was so evident to everyone else. Straightening with a renewed sense of strength, she admitted, "I loved him," and she no longer felt weak by acknowledging it, "but I love my people more."

"The Daughter of Khalid has returned!" he announced with a burst of victorious laughter, and she wished the blessing would fill her with pride and chase away the sadness lingering in her chest. Briefly her eyes flickered closed to recognize the memories she had taken with her, feeling for a moment the last touch of his lips on her forehead, but she was resolved to the path she had chosen and opened her eyes to face the future.

"Razin… It is time to return home."

‡ ‡ ‡

**2 Months Later**

"Arwa…"

Her eyes shuddered behind the black lids, searching through the thin skin as she reached out for him. The breeze caught the golden fields, sending the wheat bowing in waves like soldiers lined up to pay tribute to their king, and she could feel its stalks shiver to life around them. His hand cupped her cheek, and she turned to welcome the warmth of his palm against her lips.

"You fell asleep."

"I know," she murmured and smiled childishly, but here, in this Paradise, it was so easy to lose herself. The wheat was cool, the sun warm on her skin, the wind fresh and sweet. Her fingers twitched in the naked air, stretching blindly for the feel of his skin, his tunic, his hair…

"_Ukhti_."

Her eyes flickered open and struggled to focus on the canopy of her tent and the golden light strewn within. Rather than fresh air, spicy notes of incense laced her nose, and her quarters were stale with the captured heat of the day. Sweat gathered beneath her breasts and in the nape of her hair, dampening the sheet tousled about her. The day assaulted her all at once, and she sat up, nearly knocking Nasr from his place beside her. She was dizzy, hot, and parched, and her heart sunk as she realized she had woken from another dream about him.

"You fell asleep," Nasr said, and she smiled bitterly as she realized it had been her little brother all along, feeding the words to torture her mind.

"Yes, I did, and it is so hot," she lamented and bundled her long hair up from oppressing her neck.

"It's nearly evening," he warned, his large doe eyes staring at her. "They've begun arriving."

"The leaders?"

He nodded swiftly, and Arwa rushed to her feet, sending the blood spiraling toward her head. The dizziness plagued her again, and she slumped into sitting on the edge of her bed to wait out the assault.

"Are you sick, _ukhti_?"

"No, no," she assured him and drew her fingers across his smooth brow, too young to be wrinkled with concern. Her knuckles brushed his cheek as she explained, "Only tired."

"You sleep and sleep, and still you're tired. It worries me."

Arwa laughed gently and took his chin between her thumb and forefinger. "I know, but I've so much work to do. I will be better once we've found peace with the tribes. You shouldn't worry… That's my responsibility."

The blood settled behind her eyes, pulsing and making her head ache down to the nape of her neck, but the smile didn't falter from her lips. "Now hurry to your quarters. I need you by my side at the council," she prompted and ignored the cold sweat breaking across her brow.

"Yes, _ukhti… _I won't disappoint you," he promised in his most diplomatic voice and hurried toward the threshold. Pausing, he looked back as if abruptly suspicious and sensing his sister's rising illness.

She smiled. "Of course you won't."

A grin of pride on his young face, he ran from the tent and toward his own. She had barely seen his tiny shoulders disappear from her sight when she grabbed the pot at the side of her bed and doubled over it. Daily it seemed the fatigue, nausea, and headaches awaited her, and as she bent breathless and disgusted over her knees, she groaned her annoyance that this sickness had decided to consume her. This was not the time for her to feel weak. The tribes needed a leader, and she could allow no one else to fill the role left vacant since her father's death.

"_al-Sayyida_," her handmaiden coaxed softly while taking the pot from Arwa's hands. In its place she offered a damp rag with which Arwa eagerly wiped her mouth and face. "Should I call the healer?"

"No," Arwa answered swiftly. "There's no need to alarm anyone."

She bowed her head respectfully and turned to empty and clean the pot when she reconsidered. "_al-Sayyida_, I know it is not my place to ask such things, but as a woman, I only wonder-" Her voice trailed away as she sensed her foot stepping too close to the boundary between their stations.

Arwa lifted her brow expectantly, waiting for the unsaid words, but she had no patience. "Say whatever you're thinking. I don't have the time today."

The servant shifted nervously on her feet, never daring to lift her bent head, and Arwa's irritability seemed to smother the woman's courage. Bowing lower, she stammered, "Nothing, _al-Sayyida_. I will return with fresh water."

Exhaling, Arwa sunk over her knees once more and let the woman's words seep through her heavy mind. They meant nothing to her, only intriguing her with the unfinished remark the woman meant to make. Perhaps she would comment on Arwa's sleepless nights spent speaking with her advisors on how best to arrange an alliance among the tribes once more. It was all that consumed her, directing her attention away from eating or sleeping or wholly tending to her needs. Surely she had made herself sick with stress and obligation, but illness she could endure. It was failure she ultimately feared.

She stood despite the slight uneasiness in her bones. She would need to wash away the sweat and sand and dress before she faced the grand council. Weeks ago she had sent out messengers to every tribe that could be found, and she wondered now how many of their leaders would answer her call this night.

‡ ‡ ‡

"For years, we have fought the Romans so long as their eyes were aware enough to look East… And for years, our strategies have failed. They rule in the north and in the south, and we've seen their desire to extend into the desert." Standing at the head of the table, she could see each leader and each doubtful glance. Undeterred, she continued, "They have left us one option."

"What are you suggesting, Arwa?" Mansur, Leader of the Bahila tribe, spoke up impatiently.

She braced herself, knowing what would await her as soon as she answered, "Peace."

The men were swept up in mutual groans of disbelief and irritation that they had wasted their time on such an impossible and ill-advised strategy.

"We have neither the manpower nor the resources to engage in a sustained war with Rome," Arwa continued in a louder tone to be heard over them.

"You think your people weak?" Ya'qub of the Khuza'ah Tribe spat with dark eyes alight in insult. "The Romans have stained your judgment. How can we trust a woman who spent months in their company, bowing to their needs?"

The table quieted. The men held their tongues as their judgmental eyes turned to Arwa, waiting to see how she would receive such a blatant abuse.

"I am one of the few who has survived their company," she snapped back. "I heard their plans. I learned of their strategies. And I have returned to my people not in shame but with honor!"

"You return with ideas of peace with the Romans when our sands are stained red from the lives they have taken. We are poor from the riches they have stolen!"

"And you think war will heal our lands?" Her black eyes sizzled in the flames, swirling from face to face as if searching for a new opponent to challenge her. "Rome will never be satisfied. They will never stop attacking our lands. Do you want your sons and brothers to die at their blades? Do you want your daughters and wives to be enslaved as I was?" The men were silenced with the weight of the situation facing them, the constant threat Rome presented, and Arwa straightened in her seat to compose her raging frustration. "We cannot fight with Rome, and we cannot fight amongst ourselves… My father was murdered. My mother was stolen from me. I was made a slave, but I learned much about Rome and about my own people.

"The Romans will never match our passion, our courage, or our strength," she continued, seeing the solidarity of their pride fan across the table, "but from them we can take strategy. If we wish to face Rome, we must do so jointly as one force, and we must think like Romans."

"If we were inclined to believe you, Arwa daughter of Khalid," Harun of the Numayr Tribe spoke up, "why should we then believe Rome would consider peace with us? They would look upon our offer as a surrender."

"I understand your suspicion. We have all been taught that Romans are liars and thieves who only want for what they cannot have… But they are not in a position to continue a war so far from their capital."

"How can you know this?"

"Before I left the fort, the troops along the Limes Arabicus were recalled to Rome. One of their emperors has fallen and with him many of the men who supported this war. Rome does not have the political stability or money to back another campaign."

A wall of thoughtful silence met her resolve, and Arwa waited, folding her nervous hands, for what their response would be.

After tense minutes, Harun was the first to speak, "I cannot answer for my tribe on so serious a matter without further consideration… But it is indisputable that an alliance must be made." His shoulders fell with the air deflating from his lungs. "My men are tired with the threat of ambush and the burden to face their brothers in battle. It must end. This bloodshed will only weaken us."

"I agree," Ya'qub contributed amid various other murmurs of consent. "The fighting must stop."

Arwa's chest swelled with the rush of happiness as she gazed across the table at the tribal leaders who had gathered and who now consented to peace among themselves. They were few, and some seemed more enthusiastic than others; but it was the dawn of a new beginning with the promise of hope. She felt her father's strength and her mother's wisdom and knew she had been bred from this moment.

"Then, my brothers," she announced, "we have reason to celebrate!"

A feast was made with each tribe sharing what it could with the others, breaking bread at the table, spilling wine, and spreading tales. The men were better accustomed to this sort of ceremony, content to let the wicks of the candle burn low into their core until they were flickering dimly and servants rushed to replace them. When the men were brought their pipes to ease the fullness of their guts, a clear alcohol from Greece was opened and poured among the guests.

"A gift from the ports of the south," Mansur boasted with a glossiness to his eyes that betrayed how he had acquired the vessel, but Arwa could not bear another drink or the smell of smoke driving the air from the tent. The night weighed heavily upon her, making her eyes droop no matter the victory they celebrated, and she slipped away into the cool, crisp desert night while the leaders were preoccupied.

Fires crackled from the surrounding tents, and she could hear the muffled eruption of laughter spilling from the main dome. Her arms wrapped about herself to hold in the warmth and stave off the cold though she welcomed the rush of chill air into her lungs. It awoke her senses, numbed the distant throbbing in her skull, and calmed the slight uneasiness to her gut. Tomorrow, she would allow herself to rest, if she could spare the time, but she doubted she would be so fortunate. There was still one, overwhelming matter to be decided, and she was certain the tribes would not be as eager for peace with Rome as they were with each other.

Idly strolling away from the tent, she craned her neck back and gazed up at the black sky punctuated by sparkling stars like rich diamonds on a black robe. She paused to consider it more closely, feeling the wind burn her cheeks and whip pieces of her hair about her face. It seemed so long since she had seen the sky. It had been there each night waiting for her to glimpse it, but months she had spent inside his tent never able to simply look up and see the beauty of heaven. She followed their patterns now, knowing vaguely the map of the sky she had studied as a child, and her eyes searched its depths for the brightest star, the one they used to guide them. It was a symbol of home for her people, capable of penetrating the darkest night to navigate their path through the endless labyrinth of dunes.

"Do you see it?" she mused beneath her breath, her lips numb from the cold so that she couldn't be sure if she even spoke the words aloud. Staring at Cynosura, she wondered if he made it home. West of Rome, farther than any map she had considered, and in her mind she could not imagine the terrain or the path he would take or the months his journey would require. Before him, the boundaries of her life were limited by the desert's reach. She never wondered what lay beyond the sea, where the roads led, how the columns of Rome would look…

"I see I'm not the only to grow tired of Harun's stories."

Arwa twisted abruptly to face Harun's young wife Naila who quickly grinned and offered up her empty hands. "Forgive me… I didn't mean to startle you."

"No," Arwa assured her, a little breathlessly, and shook her head at her foolishness. "I was lost in my thoughts."

"You worry about Rome."

"Yes," she lied and smiled to shield away the pain in her eyes.

"It is a matter to consider tomorrow. For tonight, we must celebrate. It is a feat you received these men in the same tent and could negotiate peace among them."

"It is what my father would have me do, but there were many absent."

"Of course… Men are stubborn in their ways." Naila took a kerchief and dabbed lightly at her brow. In the pale light, Arwa could see the slight glistening of sweat on her skin despite the chill night.

"Are you feeling ill?"

"Yes," Naila said with a sarcastic smile and placed a hand across her abdomen. "Ill with child."

"Another?" Arwa asked before she could catch her loose tongue.

Again, Naila flashed the same smile and rubbed absentmindedly at whatever was growing beneath the folds of her dress. "Yes, apparently my husband does not think our tribe large enough."

"It is a blessing," she quickly amended.

The young woman stiffened and placed the kerchief across her lips. In another second, she exhaled slowly and opened her eyes once more, looking exhausted and reluctantly pleased. "A blessing in disguise," she charged and let her hand fall to her stomach once more. "Each day I encounter a wave of weariness to steal my strength. My back aches. My head aches. Everything I eat upsets the baby…" Naila shook her head, eyes unfocused in thought as she reflected on her pregnancy. Looking at Arwa once more, she jested, "Now I understand why women are meant to carry children and not men. We would never hear an end to their complaints..."

Where she expected a womanly grin or burst of laughter, Arwa was silent and stiff like an animal sensing the approach of a predator. Her dark eyes were directed left but bright and focused as if she held something perfectly in her sights.

Confused, Naila stepped closer and brushed her fingers across Arwa's elbow. The touch seemed to shock the other woman who inhaled sharply and snapped her attention toward Naila, her mahogany eyes concentrated and piercing. "Have I said something to upset you?"

"No," Arwa responded bluntly. "I only realized the hour. It seems the day has caught up with me. I fear another moment, and I might sleep standing upright."

Naila laughed uneasily, not convinced but in no position to pry, and squeezed Arwa's elbow. "I can sympathize. Perhaps it is time we women retire and leave the men to their games."

She nodded curtly. The women parted ways, Naila leaving Arwa to pause by the large tent to bid the men a night of long tales, full cups, and eventually, sleep. The young Leader of the Banu Tamim Tribe then hurried toward her tent. Her blood was electric with the possibility, and she could barely catch her breath for the speed her heart raced inside her chest. Her servants were dispersed with a curt command, and she stood in the center of her tent waiting out her suspicion to be sure she was alone. Impulsively, she began removing the layers of her dress, impatient with the lacing and buttons and threads. Her hands were shaking as she pushed the shell across the swell of her hips and allowed the material to fall into a pool at her feet. Her chin dipped lower until it nearly brushed her collarbones, and she stared down the valley of her breasts to her stomach precisely as she recalled it for years and years –yet…

She lifted one hand, watching it quiver superstitiously above the surface of her abdomen as she fretted over where to place it, where to feel, afraid she would be wrong. She flattened her palm across her skin, pressing gently and waiting for the bones to sink into her flesh, but the muscles were taut, a firm barrier keeping her from her pushing too deeply. She added her other hand, searching like a blind woman across her stomach, discovering the soft sides, feeling higher up beneath her breasts where the flesh yielded as she remembered. Her eyes closed, her hands exploring, her knees shaking. Her hands finally settled low on her abdomen pointed down thumbs forming a triangle above her skin as she held her breath and seared the sensation into her memory. Exhaling, her fingers relaxed, turning to cradle the soft curve almost indecipherable to the naked eye, but she tried still, opening her eyes to a blurry vision of her caramel skin. She blinked, clearing her eyes of warm tears falling onto her breasts and sliding down her stomach.

It was so obvious to her. The dreams, her wandering thoughts, the sensation he was constantly with her.

She sat on the edge of the bed without allowing her hands to stray in the slightest. Now discovered, she couldn't find the will to release her treasure as if it too were a figment of her imagination like the fields of wheat where she met him in her dreams. Her lashes tangled, bonding by the salty tears, as her eyes closed, and through the blackness she saw the golden stalks swaying to a silent beat and stretching out far as her eye could see. So tall they grazed his hips. His large hands swept over the top like he were dipping his fingers in water, and the sea of gold rolled around them. No sound penetrated the image, but she felt the breeze gliding across her skin and through her hair. She felt the sun's rays warming her. And finally, she felt five, plump, short fingers tucked safely in her palm.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Ah! I'm finally back from my study abroad! Sorry it took so long, lovelies, but believe that I did try very hard to finish this before I left. Unfortunately, I was too busy trying to pack too many things into my suitcase... (grin) Hm, is this what you were expecting?

Thank you to Miss Lynxx, klandgraf2007, Syrena Swift, and rayo1521 for the sweet reviews!

Lynxx: "That fat pedo nugget is dead!" bwahahaha I couldn't have said it better myself! In fact I feel I should go back and end the chapter with that line :D I know this was a long time coming, but hopefully you were surprised by the developments in this chapter and pleased? Fingers crossed! Thanks so much for the kind words, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter xoxo

klandgraf: Nice new icon! I actually thought about having Razin swoop in, but then I was like nahhhhh girl power bitches! :D I suppose you can call this the aftermath... The plot thickens! I hope you liked this chapter, and thanks for the review doll :D xx

Syrena: Oh how I've missed my wifey, and her silly comments! :D Please don't hate me for taking such a long time :( And hip surgery? Jesus woman don't try to recreate the Olympics at home! I know Faustus' demise was a bit unexpected, but I mean c'mon. I think there was a group solely based on hoping Faustus would get it! Hahahaha soooooo do you hate me for separating them? Will they reunite? Will there be more sexy time? Only time will tell ;D Thanks so much gorgeous, and hope you enjoyed it and are healing! xoxo

rayo: Oh my gosh you're so sweet! Thanks for the well wishes. I had the most amazing time of my life in Europe, but it's nice to be home with the time and concentration to write. This has been weighing on me a bit, so I'm happy to get it out there. Hopefully you liked this chapter as well, and thanks for the review! :D xx


	17. Haven

Chapter 17  
>"Haven"<p>

**3 Months Later  
><strong>**Limes Arabicus, Arabia Petraea**

"Meridius!"

Hadrien pushed through the crowded corridor flooded with Roman soldiers and embraced his old friend. Laughing, Maximus patted the older man roughly on the back and welcomed the familiar face after weeks trailing along the Limes Arabicus.

"I thought it would be a cold day in Hades before I saw you again," the general continued with a jovial grin. "Bored of the banquets in Rome already?"

"Not quite, my friend," he revealed with a reluctant smile.

"Out for another campaign? I knew you couldn't stay away!" Hadrien guessed, unable to hide the roar of hope from his tone.

"Patrol," Maximus corrected.

The older man's face fell, and he scoffed, "You must have made some enemies in Rome to be sent on such a menial duty."

"Fortunately no… Emperor Aurelius is restoring Rome's treasury. He sent me to take stock of the soldiers and guards stationed along the Limes –see where cuts can be made, now that peace has been settled with the tribes." His blue eyes strayed from Hadrien, lost along that train of thought as inevitably the thread brought him back to her. _Look at all that she has accomplished without you_… He liked to imagine himself a stronger man not to feel bitter about a past lover's success, and yet he was aggravated seeing her flourish in his absence when he had lost weeks to the wine, the politics of Rome, the celebrations of Aurelius' supremacy. '_All for the power and the glory and the blood of Rome' _was shouted through the streets. He was weary of the obligation.

"He doesn't trust a praetor or senator," Maximus finished to distract himself from his wandering thoughts. "He saw the greed that festered during Verus' reign. It's left him suspicious."

"Then it's fortunate he found you. You might be the last honorable man left in Rome."

"Your fondness for the city grows," he baited with a grin as they walked through the corridors and toward his temporary quarters.

"Let's say time in the desert has given me perspective."

"Perspective?" he repeated incredulously. "You have sand in your eyes, you ass!"

"I've made the best of my circumstances," Hadrien continued with a diplomatic coolness, but as they stepped inside the room, his stature collapsed as if it had all been an act for the soldiers filtering through the hall. "When you return to Rome, tell the Emperor my services are no longer needed here. There's no reason for us to remain."

"And where would you go, old friend?"

"Home." Hadrien's usual jovial air waned as he admitted in a barren tone, "Let me see my wife. My children. I've been here too long."

Maximus nodded stiffly and promised, "I'll see what can be done. The Emperor is preoccupied with his immediate affairs… He forgets those so far from the capital."

"Make him remember, Meridius," Hadrien pressed with a meaningful look, and the general clapped him encouragingly.

Gripping the man's shoulder, he admitted, "You look like shit."

"Our rations have been cut. Tell the Emperor he can take our bread, our water, but leave us our wine."

His hearty laugh bellowed through the room, and Hadrien grinned guiltily. "We might have a vessel to spare… But first we'll need to speak about the troops under your command for my records."

The brightening of his eyes diminished in a moment, and he waved his hand with a bored look. "Right, right, there will be time for discussion tonight… but now I must leave you. There are still negotiations to be handled." He watched the general washing off the sand from his hands and face and added, "You're welcome to join me."

"In a meeting where I'm not needed?" Maximus clarified and wiped the water from his face. "I'm not so desperate for entertainment."

"I think you would find this particular gathering very entertaining."

The young general lifted his brow curiously but was far from convinced. "What are you getting at?"

Hadrien stiffened as if the thought were a rope tied around his chest, but he released it with a short breath and said, "Nothing… We'll speak tonight –if you haven't found something else to preoccupy you."

Here, the general's features were caught between a frown and smile as he watched his friend leave the room, and he turned to his records while musing how he had never seen a man so incapacitated from _lack_ of wine.

‡ ‡ ‡

By late afternoon, the general had eaten, rested, and arranged his quarters to his liking, and he now ventured to explore the armory, the quaestorium, and the barracks of this smaller fort for his notes and in preparation of his discussion with Hadrien. A scribe jotted down his thoughts while one of his lieutenants offered his assessment on the capacity.

"The most obvious options are the specialty ranks," the lieutenant said, following his general away from the barracks and once more toward the opposite end of camp where Maximus hoped to find Hadrien freed of his duties and ready to open the vessel of wine. "Scouts, vexillarii, and cavalry can easily be spared."

They passed through the canteen area where soldiers were trading with local merchants, and the general's blue eyes absent-mindedly scanned the crowded space. A soldier stepped into his path, causing Maximus to collide with him, and the man gathered his wits and saluted brusquely.

"Excuse me, General…" he began under Maximus' aggravated gaze, but without explanation, his attention waned, turning instead to a figure further ahead and focusing as if a predator centering on its prey. Thick onyx hair hanging loosely about her waist, the young girl balanced a basket against her hip causing the plain fabric of her dress to strain around her figure. Her skin glowed under the sun, and she tossed her hair across on shoulder, revealing the damp sweat pooling at her neck. His body settled like stone, only his eyes followed her every movement, his heart drumming in his ears, and as though feeling the weight of his gaze upon her, she turned to meet it. Only briefly. Realizing his rank, she shied and turned way, and he recalled the pressure of the sun building on his open skin. Deflated, disappointed, and frustrated, Maximus looked at the soldier once more having forgotten why the man was in his path.

"Go on," he dismissed, and the soldier was eager to avoid any consequences from an ill-tempered general and headed once more for his barracks. Maximus lazily glanced at the woman once more, now able to see the limitations of this cheap imitation, too short and curvy with eyes the color of black pebbles. A desperate man would find beauty in the most austere places, and it seemed a shame how he wasted his attention on false hope. Forgetting his lieutenant and scribe, he set off for the praetorium to find Hadrien while musing how two vessels of wine were more appropriate between them.

He winded through the corridors, following a servant toward the meeting room where Hadrien was finishing his affairs. As they rounded the corner, Hadrien stepped into the corridor but paused to hold the door wide behind him, and the general was not prepared to face the mahogany eyes which followed. The desert was teeming with mirages, and he had grown suspicious of its tricks. Heavy kohl corralled the brown depths, making them appear warmer and richer, and those eyes seized him with such force that he was not aware of his approach closing the space between them while she remained a statue poised in the doorway. Her eyes followed him, but this close he broke their spell and could search for the seams of this vision. He inspected the straight line of her nose, the tense curves of her lips, the taut angle of her jaw… Her thick hair was braided away from her face and piled loosely at the base of her neck, so that all her could consider were her features and know that it was truly her. When he found her eyes again, they seemed to pulse out of her stoic face, and he couldn't understand the anger building behind them.

"Meridius," Hadrien spoke up to break the silence suffocating the hallway. "You remember our guest."

Yes, though he had tried to forget her. Ignoring his companion, he spoke only to her, "What are you doing here?"

Arwa was silent, almost distrustful staring at him.

"Trade negotiations," Hadrien answered, but neither considered the general still standing aside and holding the door ajar. Watching the tension kindled between them, he added pointedly, "I had hoped you would have joined us…"

Their gazes sustained an unspoken conversation. One that left him increasingly perplexed and her further annoyed.

"Maximus," the general spoke up again, tired of attempting to pry his way between them. "She needs to rest. Perhaps you can escort her to her camp."

Finally, the Roman broke their contact to turn to his friend and his twisted words, but Hadrien merely directed his attention toward the woman yet again with a candid crease between his brow. Apathetic yet overwhelmed, Maximus considered the young tribal leader once more, but the entire picture unfolded before him. His gaze reached beyond her suspicious face to the gossamer golden tones of fabric fitted across her fuller breasts and draping from the curves of her body. His eyes probed intuitively at the protrusion which he had mistaken for a trick of the dress until her slender fingers cradled the growing curve, and he felt that same hand had somehow reached out and slapped him across the face. He turned to her for confirmation, but her fiery eyes were waiting and looking even more enraged than he had left them.

They ignited his own irritation as accusations swarmed his head. Against his duties, against his own reservations, he stepped aside to allow her passage, and she brushed past him with Razin following behind her who looked to Maximus with an indecipherable face, both apprehensive and protective.

"Ready my horse," Maximus said sharply toward his lieutenant.

"I have my own guards, General," she replied, and he had forgotten the staccato of her voice mimicking Greek.

"You are an ally of Rome now," Hadrien differed. "We protect our interests."

Rather than answering, Arwa merely nodded her farewell and set off down the hall toward the entrance of the praetorium, and without hesitation, Maximus was on her heels walking beside Razin and assessing her stiff posture and squared shoulders ahead of them. At the road, two Arabian stallions waited for their masters along with a group of guards travelling with the woman. Maximus' steed was brought as Razin helped Arwa mount the saddle, and she barely gave the Roman a second glance before setting off with her guards taking position around her. Inevitably, Maximus rode beside Razin oddly feeling some solidarity in their mutual concern for the defiant, young leader.

The tribal camp was not set far from the Limes, a startling change for the general had spent months lost in the desert searching for these same men who now left their tents to see their leader arrive with unexpected company. They dismounted and servants took their horses. Razin paused to look at him, and Maximus gathered his full height as if to meet the challenge to his lingering presence. The guard merely trailed after Arwa, turning his back and allowing Maximus to follow them to the largest tent at the center of the camp where Arwa rushed inside, and Razin took his post outside the entrance. Maximus' determined stride slowed, once more unsure whether Razin was permitting his approach or mimicking Arwa's indifference toward him. The two men's regards caught, and subtly the Arab man tilted his head in the direction of the entrance. Maximus needed no further confirmation. He ducked inside the tent, coming face-to-face with the wall of dense incense, the rich colors of fabrics, the shade, and yet still the heat. Girls tended to Arwa's hair, unraveling the strands to allow the thick locks to fall down to her waist, and for a moment, he saw her as if no time had passed between them.

Arwa caught one of her servant's wrists as the girl reached to brush her hair. Irritably, she lifted her hand, and the girls funneled from the space. She took the comb to the ends of her hair, running it through the tangles with brusque movements, evidently oblivious to the tugging at her scalp and the Roman lingering behind her.

He would not bow to her anger or her disregard, and he dared to delve further into the tent where she would be forced to face him. Her eyes barely darted his direction before staring defiantly ahead, and he could no longer stand the tense silence. "Why have you kept this from me?"

Her hand stilled with the comb poised in her hair, and her eyes snapped dangerously toward him. "You have no claim to my child," she said like an animal baring its teeth.

"I am the father!" he growled in return, his fury lashing out like a whip between them.

The brush landed with a clatter on the table, and she pushed herself to her feet, turning on him to better deliver her words, "Months I have not seen you –not heard from you. You lost your right when you sent me away!"

"You chose to leave!" he countered, flexing his hands for the control over his roaring aggravation so that he did not reach for her. "You were afraid to follow me."

All at once, her palm met his cheek. The fire faded into his skin, leaving him stunned and staring at her teeming with fury. "Leave!" she snapped and could barely stand still long enough to face him. When he made no move to obey her, her palms hit his barrel chest, trying to force him away. "Leave me!" Once begun, they wouldn't end their siege, at once pushing and hitting and tearing at him, but he remained unmoved.

Rather he watched her fight unfolding feeding the agitation growing inside him, but he couldn't find the will to throw her off of him. There was something so barren, so desperate, so crazed about her attack, fabric straining around her full breasts, rustling about her pregnant belly, that he almost laughed. He caught her arms, forcing them to her sides, and leaving her to spear him with her eyes as she wordlessly groaned her frustration.

"You know nothing!" she shouted and tried to tear her hands from his grip. "You cannot claim this child! You can't take it away from me!"

"I don't want to take anything from you!"

"You're a Roman! You only know how to conquer –how to fight-" The words were cut short as she sucked in a sharp breath and placed a hand to the base of her stomach, applying pressure and wincing as the pain lingered in her lower back from a well-placed kick from the child inside. He sought to fight as well, and she prayed he would lie still and spare her the strength to stand and face this man who had consumed her and tossed her aside. She feared the power he held over her, the way he made her long for impossible things, how his mere presence shattered her resolve. She had assumed power, garnered peace, and handled negotiations with Rome, and yet, she would have given it all away to follow him. When her eyes opened once more, she found his anger had subsided, and she cursed him. It was easier to meet in battle.

"Sit," he commanded.

She stood with her dark gaze flashing bitterly at his show of compassion.

He stepped closer, his tunic nearly brushing her stomach, and she realized suddenly that he had corralled her against the bed. Her back ached. Her limbs were weak. Gritting her teeth, she conceded to her shaking knees and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling her body relax at the support of the soft sheets and mattress beneath. He squatted to follow her paling features, now covered in a light sweat. Her lids were heavier above her fierce gaze, and unconsciously he swept aside the hair sticking to her forehead. She slapped away his hand, unable to force him to retreat but still willing to fight even as the strength evaded her. He was reminded of their time together when he had cornered her after their short combat. She was injured then, weak as well, and similarly he was frustrated but resolved to break through her wall. Memories of that hot desert afternoon flickered through his mind, reigniting the flame, and all at once his lips seized her though she pushed at his chest. He charged further past the onslaught of her hands, consumed and focused on the taste of her lips sweeter than he could remember and soft and yielding. His mouth molded to her like their features fitted together immediately finding their hold with foreheads colliding together and lips so entangled there was no room for breath. The same hands fighting against him abruptly changed their siege now tangling their fingers in his tunic and pulling forcefully.

He was obedient, rising to her call. His arms encircled her while he fit his chest between her thighs and found the position against her stomach caught between them. She pulled harder, the storming of her hormones now lighting her skin on fire, wanting him to kindle it, but he was cautious of their impediment careful not to crush her between his arms even if she desired it. She had forgotten the feel of his oppression, of his strength coiled up and poised to overcome her, and her body yearned for him to take her as in those lost nights now distant memories fading like sand through her fingers. She gripped harder, attacking him through her lips with such hunger and fierce command that he was compelled to answer her, matching her pressure letting their sweaty features slide across each other's. The friction and the tension knotted his muscles making him rigid against her where her soft flesh molded to him trying to make space for him between her legs and against her body. There was no way around her pregnant stomach between them even as their restless bodies searched for the pressure and the force. His hands abandoned her lower back to find the edge of her dress, and she hung tighter to his tunic for the balance and strength to sit. He gathered the flimsy material in his large palms helping it over her skinny ankles and up her slender calves to her knees. His chest burrowed further toward her to fill the void between her legs, but his hips hit the wooden bed frame as impeding as her stomach, everything seeming to hold him back from having her and enjoying her.

He searched for more to taste, feeding on the dewy skin of her neck, and her face chased after him, her teeth catching the edge of his ear and trying to command him once more. His massaged the length of her thighs, enjoying how his fingers sunk in deeper to her soft flesh, how he could grip her, and her heels rested on his lower back catching him and giving him free reign to her. His thumbs kneaded across her skin and found their way to the crease of her hips with her dress pooling across his arms as his search continued to find the soft curve of her abdomen more visible to his palms as they cradled its sides. His lips led him to her shoulder where her grip faltered, and she released him to ground her hands behind her hips, feeling breathless and dizzy with the heat growing in her body. His mouth dipped between her breasts, his tall stature doubling over so that his eyes were on level with the fruit of their months together, and he traced the line of her belly with his lips letting his face bury into the layered fabrics of her dress to feel the curve beneath. His hands held fast, and all at once, he could feel movement beneath his palms as the baby adjusted itself; and he held tighter mesmerized by the sensation of his child recognizing him. In another moment, the baby stilled, but Arwa's legs moved restlessly around his shoulders, reminding him he still had to answer to his child's impatient mother.

His hands moved from her stomach, trailing to cradle her naked legs even as her fingers tugged at his tunic to draw him to her once more, but feeling her soft thighs around him, he turned and sunk his teeth into her skin sending a jolt through her body. Her legs tensed around him, at once drawing him closer and stilling him, and he released her trailing kisses then toward her knee where it arched to meet him. An indulgent smile flickered at his lips as his teeth brushed the inside of her knee, and he felt the quiver shudder across her skin. Her hand on his tunic was more aggressive, angry at being ignored, and he rose to his feet catching her eyes voracious and unsatisfied. Her cheeks flushed, the material of her dress sunk listlessly between her tan thighs, and one hand anchored her on the bed, giving her the strength to sit up and face him as he unlatched the leather belt at his waist and pulled the linen tunic over his head. When he found her eyes once more, her features trembled with a rush of uncertainty, her eyes too shy to dip below his shoulders, but even seeing the barrel chest and etched muscles in the edge of her gaze was enough to unnerve her and unleash a rush of heat down her spine to settle heavily in her lap. He bent over her soothing and feeding her fire with his kiss. Her arm wrapped about his broad shoulders, her fingers gripping to the muscles of his back, while his hands found the edge of her dress, and he lifted her up to slide the material across her backside and further along her back. Slowly he unfolded the layers of her gown with one of her shaking hands guiding him, the other still clung stubbornly to him too aware of her pregnant curves and fuller breasts he had never seen. At length, he drew the material over her head, breaking her away from him and leaving her to land exposed on the soft bedding behind her.

The blood rushed to her cheeks with a flicker of womanly apprehension as his gaze left her and traveled down the length of her body unwrapped like a present for him to savor. The weight of her stomach bore down on her making it difficult to breathe or perhaps it was the touch of his callused hands moving along her skin and rediscovering her. He bowed his head shifting then to circle the bend of her tender breasts diligent as a servant paying tribute to a goddess, and she stared unnerved and enraptured by the nodding of his black curls with every kiss he placed on her skin. Then those lips hot as the desert at noon circled the peak, sending such a spark of electricity shooting through her that she gripped his arms and lost the breath from her lungs. She couldn't catch the air anymore than she could ignore the persuasive warmth of his tongue teasing the hardened skin, and she writhed impotently beneath him, digging her nails deeper into his skin as a warning to release her and let her breathe. He was reluctant to obey, letting his knees balance against the bed frame so that his hands could travel her naked skin, gripping and releasing, worshipping and possessing. Her eyes searched the black of her lids trying to calm her burning body, and she swallowed dryly when he finally straightened but only for a moment before he caught the other in the prison of his lips. She groaned in the back of her scratchy throat, nearly choking on the sound as she made it, stretching her neck blindly to make space for the air. His teeth circled the peak, and her hands pushed at his shoulders, her neck arching then but her body was too heavy to support the flexing any further. He teased her a moment longer, fascinated with the plush feel of her breast and blind struggle of her body beneath him, more responsive and unhindered than he remembered.

His body shook with the effort to hold himself from collapsing above her, and finally, his hands cupped the backs of her thighs to coax her legs away and open for him before finding her hips. Realizing his intent, she became motionless, having abandoned his arms to knot her fingers in the sheets beneath them. The tip found the line of her lips, and her heels pressed against his chest as a rush of anxiety chilled through her. He kissed her ankle while his hands added pressure beneath her knees, making her release her hold as his hips followed the easing of her body opening up to him once more. She gasped loudly, tensing from toe to nose as he slid inside, but her shaking legs couldn't withhold the brawn of his body finding her slowly, carefully. Her features trembled, and she looked away from him too sensitive to his penetration and the surge of desire ambushing her and washing away her fears. Nights she had dreamt of him coming to her, and with every fiber of her being she wanted to release her legs and allow him to fall into her and claim her as he had before. Only the pressure in her abdomen kept her will in place. Such a rough, powerful soldier, she was reluctant to entrust her body to him, but even more, she did not trust herself.

Her lips folded around him as only his most heated dreams could imagine, and his body shook restraining him from sinking in deeper than she would allow. Her heels were a blockade against his chest small but powerful, and his head lolled heavily between his shoulders as if her walls were singing his skin. Fighting instinct, he pulled away from her, and her legs trembled in his hands driving a spike in the base of his skull with how she taunted him, quivering at the feel of him and halting him from enjoying her fully. He exhaled hotly through his nose, letting his gaze follow the line of her bent legs down to the swell of her stomach at their base, her full breasts, and finally her eyes pulsing with want and apprehension. _I won't hurt you… either of you_. He sunk into her once more, measured and purposeful, and her legs flexed abruptly to stop him. His hands massaged at the tense muscles, distracting her with his persuasive hips, and his reward was a low moan sinking in his pores. Her eyes clenched closed, fingers white as they held to the sheets, and she rocked her head slowly unable to cope with the slightest brush of his hard cock inside her. He drank in her reaction losing himself in the beads of sweat glistening across her caramel skin. The tension in her legs dissolved as the pleasure grew potent and circled her waist, and she forgot the sensation of fear. Her body surrendered in his hands, and the temptation was dangled before his nose, his eyes intoxicated by the sight of her pleasure, his body hungry from the lack of her. How long since he had held her in his hands, since he had known that she was his, and his best intentions were dwindling inside his weak mind. He delved in deeper his legs shaking with the effort to be gentle, keep his thrusts measured, only allow his length to enjoy one piece of her searing heat at a time even as the endless warmth promised more satisfaction. He gritted his teeth and trusted her body to stop him as the slippery walls welcomed more of him, and his eyes nearly rolled into his head to feel how she tensed around him when her legs flexed to life and a short gasp left her lips.

It was a command his body obeyed like a soldier of her love, making him still as a statue. Only his guilty hand roamed to find her swollen stomach and search for the damage done like his eyes probing her to locate the pain in her gaze, but her tumultuous desire faced him with her dissatisfied moan falling from her lips almost aggravated at how he had misread her pleasure. Breathless and tense he faced her, as eager and irritated, and he coaxed her knees to one side. Free of the impediment of her legs and her stomach, he swept over her as unyielding as a wave crashing across her, and her arms embraced him. His kiss was rough, unbridled, warning of all that she stirred in him, and she matched his passion, lifting her head from the bed to crash recklessly into him. His lips pinned her once more letting his kiss deepen, their short gasps for air around their desperate lips, finding an outlet where he didn't fear he could hurt her. Her small palms reached for his waist pulling on his muscular body, encouraging him to her side, and he followed her direction if only for the promise of having her again. He took her from behind and chased after her lips when her head lolled with a soft moan. She twisted to cup his neck with her long fingers tangled in his short curls, and his arm reached across her to balance himself and offer the resistance to his short thrusts, more shallow but less controlled.

She exhaled forcefully with the renewed sensation of his unyielding length cutting into her more than she had wanted, and her hips twisted slightly opening herself to him, making it easier for him to reach her and fill her. He found her rougher, and she moaned into his kiss gripping tighter to the base of his strong neck. His barrel chest moved higher to balance against her, and she surrendered beneath the oppression of his weight pinning her and allowing only his hips to move. With each thrust, his waist contracted striking into her, and it was a collision she felt twice over as he swept into her and pulled away. Every movement was excruciating pleasure, so sensitive and tender she felt as if she were a virgin in his arms once more, and she couldn't control the pressure building inside her belly. She gritted her teeth. Her muscles clutched to her bones, his weight bore down on her, the breath escaped her, and the heat seemed to suffocate her. She writhed beneath him moaning and nipping at his lips agitated and restless and begging him to release her. Her walls were a welcome prison, and he wished to never leave the searing heat of her core; but each thrust the pleasure doubled, tripled, as he pinned her soft body in his arms. The sweat made her slippery in his grip sending her rocking against him, and he loved to hear it crown at her lips. Every breathless gasp and heady moan seeped into his pores drugging his blood with the scent and feel and sound of her. And he was insatiable. His abdomen ached like his arms shaking to hold him steady above her, and a short, desperate cry escaped her. His hips hit her harder, and her hands almost pushed his shoulders away as if she couldn't bear the force but her eyes begged for more. He met her again, submitting to the power of her eyes and the need to fill her, and seeing the pressure building in those brown depths brought him to the edge. Roughly he reached her limits again and again and again, burying into her, crushing her, filling her. She couldn't bear the pressure, and it crashed over her without warning making her body contract with such force that she cried out blindly and fought at his shoulders. It released her as swiftly as it had come, leaving the wild pleasure to dissolve into her blood with the warmth of his release permeating her.

Sweat dripped from his chin to land on her collarbones and mingle with the sheen across her skin. His hand cradled her belly with concern, and hers fell across his guiding him lower where he stared down at her sobered from his passion and uncertain of what he had done. There was a sudden kick as if the baby were celebrating the reunion of his parents or merely enthused by all the excitement and the happiness spreading through his mother. Regards locked, their faces mirrored the same candid smile, and suddenly they broke into laughter. Still holding his hand, she guided it higher toward her ribs searching slightly until there was another bump perhaps an elbow as the child adjusted himself. Maximus was mesmerized, and she smiled gently at the awe resonating in his blue eyes. It reminded her of her initial shock and elation, and she relived that moment with him helping him feel their child growing inside of her. He moved onto his knees and unwound her so that she lay on her back once more where he could bend and stretch his large hands across her swollen stomach, and where his thumbs would not touch, his lips filled the void sending an unvoiced blessing to his child. When he straightened to consider the baby's mother once more, her lids were heavy with exhaustion hanging low over her dark eyes though a kitten smile hiked up her lips in response to the look on his face. She had never seen him more at peace.

"You are weary," he acknowledged low in his throat and found his place beside her once more.

"He would not let me sleep last night," she explained. "Perhaps he knew his father approached."

His chest swelled at the notion, and he found himself entranced by her. "More than five months you have risen to power, gained peace, and carried my child…"

Her lips flickered indulgently. "I am not a Roman woman."

"No, you are not."

The acknowledgment awoke her as it forebode the differences which had separated them months ago, and she rested her palm on his cheek with remorse in her eyes. "How am I to a raise a child neither Arab nor Roman and yet both?"

"He cannot be both," Maximus warned. "We must choose."

Months before their choices had been at odds, and she feared the same. "Will he know his father?"

"Yes," he assured her looking almost insulted by the prospect that he would abandon them. "It is my child. I will raise him."

"He deserves a home, Maixmus," she said gently. "We cannot follow you to Rome and then to wherever war takes you."

"You wish me to remain here…" The disapproval laced his tongue, and she frowned. "I am not a tribesman. The desert is not my home. And your people will never accept me."

"You are my…" She faltered for the words and reexamined, "You are the father of my child. They won't have a choice. They won't defy me."

"Arwa," he groaned and looked away from her out across the contents of her tent, imaging briefly if he could accept this as his home. Moving each week, the constant heat, the void expanse, the arid taste… It was not a possibility. When he turned to her once more, he found her features quaking and her eyes shining with the onslaught of tears. They were a knife to his chest, and he drew her closer into his arms as he promised, "I won't abandon you."

"You will not stay here," she protested through trembling lips, frustrated and saddened and unable to control how her body reacted without her consent. She crumbled before she had the chance to gather her strength. "And I cannot travel to Rome. It is too dangerous for the child." The tears plagued her cheeks, and even as she blinked, she couldn't clear them from her eyes.

His blue eyes searched her face now stained with tears he had caused, and the guilt was salt to his wound. Grappling blindly for the words to soothe her, he decided, "I will stay with you."

Her lashes tangled making it difficult for her to see him through their web. "What?" she asked incredulously thinking she had misheard.

It was an opportunity to retract his brash promise, but he couldn't find the will. Taking her hand, he vowed, "I will stay with you until the child is born. I will be at your side when he opens his eyes… And when you are strong enough, we will find a home –neither Arab nor Roman. A home for us."

She wet her anxious lips shaking her head in mild disbelief. "What of your position?"

"I grow tired of war." Her tears fled from her eyes, but still her lips trembled faced with something so seductive and so impossible. "Would you turn from your people?" he asked.

Her heart drummed in her chest until she expected the muscle to crash through her ribs. Apprehensive but grasping for hope, she answered, "My people are strong now… And they will be strong when I am gone."

The compromise was reached, and yet she doubted his resolve. Never had she a voice beside him. In their months together, she had been subject to his will and his desires, and she feared now that her power was as insignificant as a trail of smoke pressed along by the wind of his influence. Still, her dreams haunted her as potent as visions sent to plague her mind, and in them she had seen a world far away from Rome, far away from the desert. She had seen a haven where the three of them could be a family, and so she gripped tighter to his palm feeling her cheeks sticky with dried tears and her body aching with fatigue. The wind rustled through the desert, letting the edges of her tent sway in the air, and this scene was abruptly familiar to her. Lying naked together with the taste of sand on their tongues and heat pulsing around them. It was an old memory, but the juncture of past and present gave her peace, to remember how he had sheltered her then and to trust that he would protect her now.

Their paths had collided inelegantly. Armed with hate and teeth bared, violence had united them, and despite its shroud, love had flourished. A soldier and a daughter: neither was what they should have been, and yet they were exactly how fate had whittled them with some distant purpose in mind. But it was only then lying stripped in his arms that she understood.

_The End  
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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Hello lovelies! So this is the final full chapter where Maximus and Arwa are reunited. You know I'm a sucker for a happy ending :) There will be a short epilogue, but it's contents will be a mystery for now... _  
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Thanks to klandgraf2007 for the review! I'm so happy to hear from you, and I'm guessing you were on the right track, eh? Indeed Arwa is Maximus' baby momma because nothing can ever be simple with me haha I hope that you enjoyed this chapter and that things unfolded to your liking! xoxo


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